


The Calling of the Soul

by Lintalome



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lintalome/pseuds/Lintalome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Círdan feels a mysterious call and follows... (Rating not necessarily for all chapters, but for some explicit parts.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Following the Call

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Der Ruf der Seele](https://archiveofourown.org/works/286993) by [Baralin (Lintalome)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lintalome/pseuds/Baralin)



> **Disclaimer:** Apart form the occasional OCs that might pop up, I do not own the elves or the major places (e.g. Middle-earth, Valinor) the story is set; they belong to Tolkien. However, the OCs of Anfael, Dólvaen, Lothwen, etc. are © to myself as well as the story and may **not** be used or reproduced in any form without my permission.
> 
>  **Beta:** [ Beruthiels_Cat](http://www.lotrfanfiction.com/viewuser.php?uid=2674) *hugs* I thank you so much for the sound advice you always offer. I do not know what a mess my scribbling would be without you. *more hugs*
> 
> A giant *hug* for JDE, as her beautiful Círdan/Maglor ficlet inspired me to write my own vision of them.
> 
>   
> 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

 _~ Third Age ~_

  


A lone gull drew its circles, bathing in the autumn sun beneath a peerless sky of chill blue, dappled with patches of white clouds. Anor’s golden rays broke on the waving sea; painting the deep blue surface with hues of silver gilt. Despite the sun, the air held the coolness of late autumn; fresh and slightly salty…smelling of rain to come. Smoothly, a small white ship skimmed over the sea, its sails stirring in the breeze, the gentle lapping of the waves against the delicate vessel the only sound to be heard.

On board stood a lone elf, tall and graceful, clad in blue and grey; long strands of pale silver hair twirling in the air, as he stared into the distance…absently gazing to the north. His fine sculptured face was flawless; youthful in appearance, yet his silky white beard and the sea green pools of his eyes spoke of the long ages he had lived. There was wisdom in his eyes and strength; yet hidden in the fathomless depths was also loneliness, a deep longing and an ever growing weariness.

The sudden cry of the gull pulled Círdan from his musings; tilting up his head, his eyes followed the flight of the bird for awhile, before steering his ship along the coast toward the furthermost reaches of Lindon. The coast grew rougher here. Plain, sandy shores gave way gradually to a rugged, rocky shoreline and steep cliffs crowned with dense pine woods whose scent mingled with the salty sea air. Small, clear mountain streams cascaded down the rocky walls in waterfalls before pouring into the sea.

Travelling so close to the shore was risky, even for a skilled and ancient mariner such as Círdan. Beneath the surface of the sea, strong under currents and sharp rocks presented a constant danger; yet he would not abandon his course, steadily following a calling he felt deep within his soul. The call drew ever him further north like a spell…and he followed; a strange thrill of anticipation driving away his inner weariness.

The breeze strengthened, causing the small ship to pitch and roll heavily in the rough, rapidly growing swell of the sea. Gripping the rudder firmly, Círdan lifted his gaze to the sky, muttering under his breath: the clear blue had darkened; large grey clouds heralding the rainstorm that was soon to befall him. Quickly, he scanned the coastline for a sheltered cove where he could go ashore, seeking refuge from the storm. He knew those waters only vaguely, rarely travelling thus far north; yet fortune favoured him and he quickly found what appeared to be a small inlet enclosed by steep cliffs.

Carefully, Círdan steered his ship along the passage leading through the sheer rock walls. The current was strong; tossing the light vessel to and fro, yet he never lost control, skilfully dodging sharp reefs. The passage opened up into an oval cove, and a narrow, sandy shore running along one side. There was a cave with an opening both tall and wide enough to hold the ship securely; deciding it would provide excellent shelter from the storm, he slowly manoeuvred the vessel there before he jumped ashore, pulled it partly onto the sand and tied it securely to the rocks with strong ropes.

He had reached safety just in time. Moments later, the low rumble of the approaching storm swelled to a deafening roar and the thick clouds darkened to deep grey before torrents of rain started pouring down. Eying the sky with a grim expression, Círdan went aboard again to gather his belongings; then settled on the dry sand within the cave, leaning his back against a smooth boulder. Before the clouds had darkened the sky, Anor had been almost at her peak. For now, he was trapped and decided to use his enforced rest to have a small meal.

Círdan unpacked bread, cheese, fruits and a wineskin and started to eat, meanwhile pondering how best he could proceed upon his journey. It was perhaps safer to continue travelling afoot; the sea in this region was unpredictable in autumn and he was not sure if he would be able to find another good shelter for his vessel further up the coast. Círdan knew his destination must be close, the inner call drawing him onward had intensified during the last miles out on the sea; stirring a longing within him he had not felt for long years. He would look for a path leading up the rocks as soon as the rain lessened; but for now he had to be patient. Drawing his cloak closer around his shoulders, he decided to have a nap.

 

*~*~*

 

Círdan had fallen into a light slumber, yet his inner restlessness did not allow him any respite. For more than three weeks sleep had eluded him; vivid, haunting dreams awakening him in the depth of the night, sweat drenched…and painfully aroused. He had felt something stir deep within his soul…a call, a longing, a _promise_ …and he would follow it to the end of the world if it led him there. He had left Mithlond two days ago, journeying quickly without pause. No-one had questioned his sudden departure; it was not unusual for him to seek solitude out on the sea for days…or even weeks.

Coming back from his musings, Círdan noted the storm had passed; it was still raining softly, yet his urge to move on was almost unbearable. Walking along the narrow shore, he scanned the rocky walls for a secure way to climb. There appeared to be a narrow outcropping leading to the heights above. Climbing the ledge, Círdan explored the slope and found it easy to ascend. At the top, a narrow path led along the cliffs, flanked by pine forests. Quickly, he returned to the ship, gathered his pack and weapons. He checked the ropes securing his vessel one last time, and set off in a good mood.

Closing his eyes for a moment when he reached the path, Círdan concentrated on the invisible force that had led him here, feeling it flood his mind like a gentle caress. Breaking into a run, he headed north, keeping close to the trees as they provided excellent shelter from the remaining rain and wind. Breathing deeply of the fresh air, he let his gaze wander over the beautiful, wild scenery; revelling in the peace it exuded. There were no settlements on the narrow, rocky strip of land along the cliffs; beyond the forest to his left, the land descended into lower Forlindon, stretching along the Ered Luin down to where Forlond was once located.

Under Gil-galad’s rule the area around Forlindon had flourished, yet in the two millennia after his death all elves had withdrawn, settling in Mithlond and Imladris, or choosing to depart into the West. A deep melancholy washed over Círdan…he had seen many realms rise to glory only to die with their kings and lords; had seen cities flourish only to be wrecked and destroyed by war…too much loss and grief forever imprinted in his mind. An immortal soul was not granted blissful oblivion. He had existed long before Ithil and Anor had first risen in the sky; he was ancient and all the ages he had lives weighed heavily.

There were few elves in Middle-earth who could understand the magnitude of such a span of time; yet Círdan surpassed even those by many years. Coming to a halt, he let his gaze wander across the sea; taking in the gentle and steady billowing of the waves after the storm. He loved the sea, could become lost in watching the boundless blue spreading before his eyes…yet the sight felt bittersweet. Like others, the unique beauty filled his heart both with joy and longing, yet he saw more…saw memories of the lands that had drowned there millennia ago.

The passing of time and the changing of the world was a constant pain in his soul, growing with the years; he longed to leave these shores, but he was not granted to do so yet. Long ago he had been given a duty, he was to take care of the elves who wished to leave Middle-earth, assuring their safe passage over the sea…he would wait patiently until his task was fulfilled and he was free to go himself. Each ship he saw take its leave sent a dull ache through his soul, the numbness he felt only soothed by the hope he saw in the faces of those who sailed.

Picking up his water skin, Círdan took a deep draught before he lifted his gaze toward Anor, noting it to be early afternoon. Shaking off his melancholy thoughts, he strapped the water skin back to his pack and quickly took off again; letting the strange excitement he felt take control, following the invisible path his senses led him upon. With every step Círdan took his sadness fell away, making him feel light-hearted and even enthusiastic.

 

*~*~*

 

It was about an hour before sunset when Círdan’s senses suddenly became highly alert. The call he felt was now very close; vibrating through his mind as an intense, constant humming; sending small, pleasant shivers down his spine. Scanning his surroundings, his sensitive ears caught the faint sound of song floating on the breeze. Concentrating on the sound, Círdan followed it until he found a small, hidden cove nestled between the rocks below the cliff; the faint scent of burning wood pervading the air. Stepping closer to the edge, he let his gaze wander; trying to see the entire place, but the rugged, rocky landscape partially obscured his view.

Círdan could not see anyone, but he was sure the sound rose from there. A wave of anticipation washed over him, awaking a longing that almost made him lose his caution. Feverishly, he searched for a way downward; pacing along the cliff until he found a place where the steep rocks flattened to a sparsely vegetated slope he could climb down. Carefully descending the rain-soaked hillside, Círdan finally reached the bottom and let his curious gaze wander.

The cove was larger than it had appeared from above; opposite of him a long, wooded slope stretched along the shoreline and a large rock overhang had hidden the entrance to a small cave directly beneath. Motionless, he listened; trying to detect from whence the song came…seemingly, the forest along the slope; yet Círdan was not sure as the breeze was too strong, only carrying fragments of the song to him. He longed to seek the source, driven by a deep yearning, but forced himself to remain calm, breathing deeply.

Curiously, he made his way to the entrance of the cave and peered inside; the spicy scent of burned pinewood greeted him, luring him closer. Stepping inside the cave, Círdan found it was not as tiny as it appeared from outside; almost circular, with a diameter of about five paces, offering just enough space to shelter its occupant and his sparse belongings. The entrance was narrow, providing excellent shelter against the constant cool breeze and occasional rainstorms…it was also a well-chosen refuge, considering the upcoming winter.

A simple, wooden frame had been crafted in the entrance of the cave; a large sheet of leather attached to it, serving as a makeshift door against days of rough weather. At the moment the leather was tucked aside, tied to one of the wooden posts. A soft breeze gently caressed Círdan’s cheek and following the course of the airflow, he saw a small crack at the ceiling of the cave, enabling good ventilation; keeping it dry and free of smoke from the fire. Giving it another thought, he came to the conclusion that this must be the source of the smoke he had smelled, when standing on the cliff above the cave.

The fireplace had been built in the centre of the cave; rimmed with round, smooth stones to keep the embers and ashes in place. A construction of four long, slender poles, crafted from smoothed branches, served to hang a small kettle over the fire from a thin metal chain; though the empty kettle stood beside the fire place at the moment. On a small ledge to his left, Círdan could see a few small wooden bowls, plates, spoons, mugs and an iron teapot had been neatly placed on the rock beside small leather pouches, water skins and two knives.

Against the wall below the ledge leaned a simple broom, made from a straight branch and dried twigs. Casting another glance about, Círdan found that even though the cave was simple and rough, its occupant had neatly arranged his sparse belongings, seemingly taking utmost care to keep the place clean and free from dust or sand. On a ledge at the wall opposite the entrance, there lay a branch weighed down with stones; stripes of dried meat and fish dangling from it on thin ropes. The scent of these was very faint, the good ventilation of the cave keeping the sharpness they would normally exude from permeating the air.

Beside the branch, Círdan spied a stock of apples and edible roots; on the ground below the ledge, logs of hardwood had been piled up to serve as firewood; an old, but neatly tended axe leaning beside the pile. To his right, Círdan saw what appeared to be the sleeping-place, he moved in that direction, crouching down to give it a closer look. A flat, wooden frame on the ground had been filled with dried moss and covered with soft furs to lie on; more furs served as blankets.

Despite its simplicity, the sleeping-place looked very inviting; slowly Círdan traced his fingers along the soft pelts, encountering a large sword and matching daggers hidden beneath the furs. The occupant of the cave had not bothered to take his weapons with him; seemingly feeling secure and well sheltered in his little refuge. Letting his glance and fingertips wander over the weapons, Círdan admired the elaborate design and delicate artistry with which they had been crafted They were old, yet carefully drawing one of the daggers out of its sheath, he found it been tended to with the utmost care; the blade polished and deadly sharp.

A faint sound ripped him out of his absent-mindedness; putting the weapons back in their place, Círdan came back to his feet and listened…the faint song he had heard before became clearer with the shifting of the breeze, enchanting him like a mystical spell. Forgetting his caution, he carelessly dropped his pack, bow, and sword beside the sleeping-place, before he stepped out of the cave again…following the call

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~


	2. Silent Companions

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  


The soft breeze gently caressed Círdan’s cheek, strands of his log hair twirling in the air as he soundlessly walked along the wooded slope flanking the coastline. He had found a narrow path, winding its way through the old pines and had followed it; urged on by the song he heard in the distance. With every step he took the sound became clearer and when the sun was about to set, Círdan knew he had almost found its source. The path suddenly turned upwards, leading to a small plateau that towered above the sea; allowing a wonderful view of the gently waving water.

On a low rock sat a lone figure cloaked in grey; a hood drawn over his head, slightly fluttering in the gentle breeze. Soft, skilful harp play mingled with the most beautiful voice Círdan had ever heard; rising up to the air in a haunting melody that went straight to his core, making him shudder. He had heard this unique voice for the first time at the _Mereth Aderthad_ millennia ago; even then it had held him captive. Only one other was said to have surpassed this one, yet Círdan thought the depth of emotions and passion in the voice and play were matchless.

Maglor…he should feel anger and loathing for the last surviving son of Fëanor; a kinslayer. Yet he could not…the grave sadness of the song touched him deeply and he stood unmoving; listening silently. Círdan could not tell if Maglor was aware of his presence. If he was, he did not acknowledge him, baring all his pain, grief and emotion with every word he sang and every note he played; weaving them into a peerless melody that seemed to pour straight from his heart. Slowly, a beautiful sunset dipped the sea into glowing shades of orange and gold; the unmoving, darkly cloaked shape of the singer appearing as if he was a statue, outlined by the colourful horizon.

In the distance, Círdan made out the dark shape of a small island, and as if Maglor had sensed his thoughts, he started to sing of realms long since passed. Yes, in the past this elf had wandered the lands that had sunken long ago; when he gazed out at the sea, he did not merely see the ocean…he saw memories, just as Círdan did. The distant island was the only remnant of the strong fortress where once Maglor’s elder brother had ruled; northeast of this had once been Maglor’s own realm and directly in front of them, the lands his brother Caranthir had called his own.

  


*~*~*

  


Drowning in the bittersweet melancholy of Maglor’s song, Círdan watched the sky darken; countless stars twinkling in the endless canopy, mirrored on the surging sea. Memories of old surfaced from the depths of his mind; floating through his thoughts only to be washed away by other emotions Maglor’s music evoked within him. It almost felt as if he himself was floating, carried away by the magic of the moment. Círdan completely lost track of time; when the singer’s play finally ceased, a deep, unconscious sigh left his lips, drawing the singer’s attention.

In one swift, graceful motion Maglor was on his feet, turning to face the intruder; shooting Círdan a penetrating glare…his eyes the colour of polished mithril. Neither of them spoke, nor did they move; staring at one another for long moments. Maglor’s hood had slid down, his long ebony mane twirling in the wind as he stood immobile in front of Círdan; still holding his harp in one hand. The brown boots and leather breeches he wore, as well as the dark blue tunic looked well worn, yet this did not diminish the strength and pride he exuded.

Both of them were tall and lean, equal of height, neither of them lowering his gaze. Maglor’s perfectly carved, alabaster skinned face was softly illuminated by Ithil’s silvery beams; shadows dancing across it, cast by the billowing branches of the trees. The singer’s gleaming, mithril eyes showed neither shock nor curiosity. There was defiance in his gaze; sadness, loneliness…a deep, fierce longing that made Círdan shudder, for he knew his own eyes mirrored it.

Tentatively Círdan stepped closer, until they stood only inches apart. Maglor did not move, staring at Círdan unwinkingly; his warm breath ghosting over the other’s face. Never losing eye contact, Círdan slowly reached out one hand; cupping the singer’s cheek in his palm…yet Maglor remained motionless. Gently caressing the high cheekbone with his thumb, Círdan revelled in the softness of the flawless pale skin before he leaned closer; tenderly pressing his lips against Maglor’s.

He felt the singer jerk, a shiver coursing through his body, before his resistance finally melted and he parted his lips with a sigh; granting Círdan’s questing tongue entrance. Their kiss was slow at first, tentative…but then it deepened; bold tongues exploring, teasing and dancing with each other until the need of air finally forced them apart. Círdan leaned in for another kiss, but Maglor pushed him back; renewed defiance flaring up in his eyes before he turned away, rushing off along the path.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Círdan revelled in the pleasant, tingling sensation he felt on his lips; the singer’s taste still lingering there. The kiss had been enough to arouse him to full hardness; no other had ever caused such an instant, intense reaction. The singer had not even touched him…yet his longing for more was almost unbearable. Casting a last long glance at the night sea, Círdan turned toward the path and slowly followed Maglor back to the cave. He did not know how he would be received; the temper of a Fëanorion could be…unpredictable.

  


*~*

  


Stepping into the cave, Círdan closed the leather flap and was about to turn when strong hands gripped his shoulders; shoving his back against the rough rock face. Firm lips seized his own in a fierce, hungry kiss, while agile fingers freed him of his garments, almost tearing them off his body. Lost in the sudden onslaught, Círdan closed his eyes; moaning helplessly when a curious tongue, lips and teeth grazed every patch of his skin that was bared. Sharp stone edges dug into his back, yet he did not care; pulling Maglor closer he ground his straining erection against him, while desperately tugging at the other’s clothes.

Abruptly all the blissful friction was gone. Cool air brushed Círdan’s bare, heated skin; causing his arousal to painfully twitch against his belly. Groaning in protest, he reached out to pull Maglor back to him but strong hands caught his wrists; pinning them against the wall. Círdan suddenly felt the singer’s warm skin flush against his own, sighing contently before his lips were captured in another wild, demanding kiss that left him breathless. Maglor’s rock hard member pressed against his own and he bucked his hips; ripping throaty moans from both of them.

The singer’s hot breath ghosted over Círdan’s ear and a sharp hiss escaped him when the other bit into the sensitive tip before licking it soothingly. Círdan’s wrists were released and bold fingers roamed his body, caressing every inch of skin they encountered while his own hands slid across Maglor’s hips. Gripping the other’s taut buttocks, Círdan pulled him even closer; stealing another kiss from Maglor while grinding against his arousal, causing the singer to shudder and moan deeply.

Licking, kissing and biting his way down along Círdan’s throat to his chest, Maglor left a wet trail until he reached a hard nipple; greedily sucking it between his lips while teasing the other with his fingers. Círdan could do naught but moan, the pleasant sensation was overwhelming and when finally a hand wrapped around his hard member, stroking him slowly, it was as if every rational thought drained from his mind. He was floating on a sea of pure rapture; while wave after wave of bliss washed over him.

  


*~*

  


Círdan did not even know how it happened, but soon he found himself on his hands and knees; kneeling on the bed of moss and soft fur while slick fingers explored his hidden entrance. The fingers withdrew and Círdan was about to protest when Maglor suddenly gripped his hips; entering him with one forceful thrust, pushing in to the hilt. A throaty cry was ripped from Círdan when the burning sensation of being so wholly filled and possessed washed over him; heat licking over every fibre of his body, setting his nerves aflame.

Yet Círdan spread his legs even further, granting Maglor better access; crying out in rapture when the singer’s next thrusts each brushed the hidden gland deep within his body. Their coupling was not gentle; both of them driven by hunger and longing. Círdan rocking back, meeting every thrust while Maglor rode him almost brutally; setting a pace that rapidly drove them to the edge. A strong hand wrapped around Círdan’s weeping organ, stroking him along with each hard thrust until he felt his groin tighten; reaching his shattering orgasm with a voiceless cry only seconds before he felt Maglor’s warm seed flood him.

Círdan’s knees gave in and he collapsed onto the furs, pulling the singer down with him. They were both gasping for air, their sweat drenched bodies shaking; riding out the last waves of their forceful climax. Slowly, Maglor pushed himself up and withdrew from Círdan before he sank down beside him with a sigh; absentmindedly staring at the ceiling until a gentle touch at his arm brought him back to his senses. Turning onto his side, he met Círdan’s sea green eyes; gazing at him thoughtfully for long moments before pulling him into a gentle embrace.

Covering their bodies with the soft furs, they held each other; Maglor gently stroking Círdan’s pale silver hair while Círdan caressed his back. Kiss bruised lips sought for each other, sharing a last, slow, tender kiss before exhaustion finally claimed them and they fell into a peaceful slumber; their bodies closely entwined.

  


*~*~*

  


Slowly Círdan awoke from his reverie; pleasantly cradled inside a soft, warm cocoon. He needed a few moments to recall where he was, but then smiled; stretching languidly, wincing slightly when he felt a sweet pain hum through his lower body…the aftermath of the firestorm that had swept him away last night. He was alone, he did not need to look about to know Maglor was not there; yet it did not worry him, he was sure the singer would return soon.

The cave was softly illuminated by a ray of light falling through the crack in the ceiling and the embers glowing in the fireplace. Casting a glance about, Círdan saw his garments had been neatly folded and placed at the foot of the bed; alongside with his pack, boots and sword. Maglor’s sword was there as well; however, Círdan’s bow and quiver were missing…apparently the singer had gone hunting.

Revelling in the sated contentment he felt for a few moments longer, Círdan finally peeled himself out of the furs, coming to his feet. His skin felt sticky, remnants of their passionate encounter still evident. His body yearning for a bath, he left the cave; walking toward the sea. The cold water was very refreshing, yet Círdan winced at the stinging sensation when the salty liquid licked over his sore behind; as well as the scratches and bite marks on his skin.

The ache would pass; in his pack he always carried a small jar of herbal balm that often came in handy when tending rough, sore skin caused by being out on the sea for long periods. He would apply some of the balm later; it would soon soothe the burning. Ducking beneath the surface, Círdan dived toward the bottom; floating in the cool until the need of air forced him to surface again. Clean and refreshed, he finally emerged from the water, wiping it from his body and wringing out his long, pale hair before he finally made his way back to the cave.

The embers still radiated enough warmth to dry him, yet he added a small log of wood to keep it going; as well as filling the teapot with fresh water, placing it in the embers. Círdan picked out a wooden comb from his pack and stood beside the fireplace; combing his hair until only a slight dampness remained and the long mane shone like Ithil’s pale silver beams. Searching for the balm, he decided the easiest way to apply it was in a kneeling position. Settling on the bed, he was just about to tend his sore behind when he suddenly heard a chuckle ringing from behind him.

Blushing to the tips of his ears, Círdan dared not face the singer, lowering his gaze; the awkward situation Maglor had caught him in was too embarrassing. He heard Maglor step closer, kneeling beside him; gently cupping his cheek, turning Círdan’s head to face him. Bestowing a tender kiss on Círdan’s lips, Maglor took the small jar from him, before gently sliding a slick finger between the elder elf’s buttocks, carefully rubbing the soothing balm onto the sore rings of muscles.

Círdan sighed into the kiss when he felt the stinging sensation lessen. The gentle caress even aroused him…but the finger withdrew, far too soon for his liking. Motioning Círdan to lie down on his belly, Maglor applied more of the balm on the worst scratches on the elf’s back, as well as on the deep bite mark he had left on the other’s shoulder during their heated encounter. Turning to his side, Círdan pulled Maglor into another long kiss before the singer finally pulled away; coming back to his feet.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Círdan silently observed Maglor; despite the humble life he lived for millennia, the Noldo had never lost his grace and pride. There was a fire in the Fëanorion…a flame that stubbornly refused to extinguish; even though the pain, grief and sadness Círdan saw in the mithril orbs was all consuming. Both drew him to Maglor, the fire _and_ the sadness; it was like a spell…a silent calling Círdan followed without reservation.

A nudge to his shoulder pulled Círdan from his musings; looking at Maglor he gratefully accepted the mug of tea the singer offered him before settling behind him, enfolding the elder elf in a gentle embrace. Absentmindedly, Círdan’s fingers traced the fine, silvery lines on one of Maglor’s palms; feeling the shudder that coursed through the strong body behind him. The scars where the Silmaril had burned Maglor had never completely faded; not in ages. They never would...a constant reminder of the singer’s guilt.

Maglor had found small game, a rabbit was spitted on a branch the singer had tied to the wooden poles; slowly roasting above the fire. Sprays of fat were hissing in the flames…apart form the slow, even breathing of the elves, the only sound that broke the silence. When the meal was ready, Círdan was about to unpack the bread and cheese he carried in his pack; yet with a silent shake of his head Maglor declined, handing him a bowl with strips of meat along with slices of apple.

Círdan knew Maglor was too proud to accept. He did not want to be pitied, yet this was not what Círdan intended. What he felt was understanding, forgiveness and even a deep affection for the singer. He had heard Maglor’s innermost emotions and longings bared in his song; it had touched him deeply…many of them mirrored his own. They sat in silence for awhile after finishing their meal; later they took a long walk along the shoreline, watching the sunset from the small plateau while Maglor played his harp.

Neither of them spoke a word; it was not necessary. Each knew what the other thought and needed; their eyes and bodies speaking a language far more eloquent than any words. The silent company of one another filled them with a deeper sense of peace and all their weariness fell away for the moment, making them feel content. The only words passing between them were incoherent mumbles and pleas accompanied by sighs and moans when they made love again; until morning broke and they fell into an exhausted reverie.

  


~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (S) Mereth Aderthad - Feast of Reuniting


	3. Breaths in Time

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  


Círdan woke to the pleasant sensation of a strong, warm body closely nestled in his embrace. Letting his gaze wander over Maglor’s sleeping form, he had to smile; the Noldo’s fingers were gently playing with his beard as he slept. Pressing his nose against Maglor’s soft, ebony hair, Círdan deeply inhaled the unique scent of the other; deep pain welling up within his heart. It was time to leave; a week had passed since the call to his soul had led him to the cove…and to Maglor.

They had both felt it the night before. It had been in each kiss and touch they had shared; their lovemaking different from all the other times they had joined in the past few days. Círdan had awakened in the middle of the night…alone; a faint song carried into the cave on a current of air. Stepping out of the cave he had found Maglor standing by the sea, his pale skin gleaming under Ithil’s soft beams; ebony hair gently waving in the soft breeze. Head tilted up toward the sky, Maglor sang to the stars; his song sad and pleading, bereft of hope.

Silently, he had walked over to the Noldo, gently wrapping his arms about the slender waist; bestowing soft kisses on his neck and shoulders. The singer’s voice broke; his body shaking with silent sobs. After a long while, Maglor slowly turned in the embrace, traces of tears on his pale cheeks; mithril orbs searching Círdan’s with an expression of pain; haunted and desperate…an unspoken plea that touched his very being…the plea for forgiveness.

That night on the shore, Círdan had held him, soothed him; answering his silent plea with every touch…every kiss. Only _this_ night, Maglor’s stubborn defiance had wavered, and out there beneath the stars Círdan had given the singer what he longed for; conquering him, possessing him…showing him sweet forgiveness until their cries of passion rang out into the night before they finally collapsed on the cool sand, shivering from exhaustion.

They had made love again back in the cave, slow and gentle this time; drawing it out, savouring every second until they tumbled over the edge together in a mind-blowing explosion of bliss. Clutching one another tightly, they rode out wave after wave of their shattering climax…not even loosening their embrace when they fell asleep, knowing their time to part from one another had finally come.

Careful not to wake the sleeping elf, Círdan untangled himself from Maglor and left the bed; dressing quietly before shouldering his pack, finally donning his sword and daggers.

“ _Navaer Maglor...guren niniatha nan lû i ammin achenitham,_ ” Círdan murmured, casting a last glance at Maglor’s sleeping form before he turned and left the cave.

  


*~*~*

  


Breaking into a run, Círdan made his way back to his ship; never looking back. In those few days he had spent with Maglor, he had felt a contentment that had driven away all his weariness, yet he knew the feeling would only last for a short while…in the end his inner melancholy would return. A bittersweet pain filled his heart…as always when he parted from his secret lover; yet he had his memories of their secret encounters and would draw from them until next they met.

Lovers…a strange description of the relationship they shared. _Relationship_ …an even more unusual expression for their rare, occasional encounters. What they shared was to loose to be a true relationship; yet it went far deeper. Círdan had long ceased to ponder the nature of the strange bond he and Maglor had shared for almost a thousand years; he had simply accepted it, following the call to his soul without restraint whenever he sensed it. Círdan was certain Maglor roamed Lindon far more often than he felt the call; he had no explanation what prompted their bond to awaken…however, he supposed it happened when either he or Maglor needed it most.

The first time he had met Maglor, it happened by chance…a storm forcing him to seek shelter with his ship; ending up in the cove the singer had chosen as his temporary refuge. No call had led him there, yet Círdan was too wise to believe something like this could happen by mere chance…nothing in Eru’s design happened without a reason. Who was he to question the One? If it was fated he and Maglor share such a bond, he would not fight it; it had led him to an elf who understood him, giving him what he needed without being asked or questioning him.

Acceptance came not so easy to Maglor, he tried to fight it; struggling against the need and longing he felt. Círdan could not tell if the singer felt the call as well; yet he supposed only _he_ could sense it, as whenever they met there was fierce defiance…even anger in those mithril eyes before Maglor finally gave in, seeking warmth and closeness. If the singer had sensed the call as well, he would break camp as soon as he became aware of it; moving on until the call ebbed and finally faded.

Círdan did not hold it against him, quite the contrary; he understood Maglor’s defiance…and was grateful for it. It had certainly always been in his blood; yet in all those millennia Maglor wandered the shores of Middle-earth, his stubbornness had strengthened…becoming the sole thing that kept him from fading. If his defiance broke, Maglor would die…he yearned for peace and forgiveness; yet he would not have it _this_ way…not in death.

Círdan wished with all his heart he could give Maglor what he longed for; taking the singer with him to Mithlond, holding and soothing him whenever Maglor was close to breaking. It was not possible; even if the elves of Mithlond would welcome him, the singer would never accept. The moment he asked Maglor to come with him, the bond between them…the strange spell that tied them together, would be broken. Maglor would close his heart to him; he would turn away and they would never meet again.

Their rare, secret encounters were all they had; Círdan drew strength from them and he knew Maglor did as well. They were like breaths in time; fleeting moments in the immeasurably long lives of two elves; yet they were like those breaths that saved a drowning man from dying until he reached dry land. Círdan would wait for the call. No matter how many years might pass until he felt it next; he would be ready to search for his singer whenever fate willed it.

He wished he could do more, yet the only thing he could give Maglor were pleasant memories…and the leather bundle he left for his lover whenever they parted. Maglor would never accept the small gifts if he handed them directly to him; he wished no pity and in his pride he would reject them. Those small things Círdan left for him were never given as charity, they were given with love; coming straight from his heart even though they were only simple gifts.

  


*~*~*

  


With a deep sigh, Maglor began to unwrap the leather bundle he had found beside the bed when he had awakened. All through the centuries he had always found such a bundle secretly left by his lover when he departed. As always, he had felt anger at first; not at Círdan, he knew the elf never meant to insult him with his gifts…but at himself for not being able to show him how grateful he was for those rare, special moments they shared. Círdan would never know how much it meant to him; even though he tried to fight it every time anew, it meant the world to him…gave him strength to carry on.

A smile lit up his features; the first thing he found in the bundle, were a couple of coils of harp strings, made of spun silver…Círdan always brought him harp strings. They were the most precious gift to him as he had no possibility of acquiring such fine strings, feeling loath to seek contact with elves or even men. He usually made harp strings from his own hair, or used entrails of animals he had hunted; yet they did not last long and their sound was not as peerless as when playing on silver strings.

The singer also found a coil of strong elven rope; a pouch with rare, dried healing herbs and some bandages. Another pouch held needles and thread. Most of Círdan’s gifts were simple and practical; small things Maglor could easily carry in his pack; yet was not able to easily attain them elsewhere. Considering the upcoming winter, Círdan had packed several thick candles, a wooden mould, wicks and a small iron pitcher; thus he would be able to make new candles from the melted wax.

Círdan had also left his bow and quiver for him; he had found them leaning at the wall beside his sword. His own had cracked recently during a fight with orcs; he had not yet had the time to make a new one, being unable to find suitable wood to do so. Círdan’s bow was a fine one; excellently crafted, he would certainly put it to good use filling his stock of dried meat before winter came.

The three bottles of wine his lover had left for him, and the small loaf of cheese, were a most pleasant addition as well. Even consuming them sparingly, the wine and cheese would not last till spring…but he would savour every single drop and bite of them. Two books of poetry promised to lighten the cold, lonely winter nights to come; allowing him to dream for awhile. Depending on the season, Círdan often brought him things he would need while staying in one place; yet Maglor was sure the wise elf knew he would leave them behind as soon as he moved on.

The last of Círdan’s gifts was a neatly folded pile of garments, made of strong materials to ensure they lasted a long time. They were not new clothes, Maglor saw. Gazing at them for long moments, a single tear ran down the singer’s cheek…they were Círdan’s own clothes; the unique scent of his lover still clung to them. Picking up the bundle, Maglor pressed his nose against the material. Inhaling deeply he recalled the beautiful memories of the past few days, weeping silently.

“ _Nan lû govaded vîn,_ ” Maglor murmured, before he placed the clothes aside and picked his harp. Walking to the plateau, he settled on the boulder and began to play; his song ringing out over the sea, full of sadness…grief…and love.

  


~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (S) Navaer Maglor...guren niniatha nan lû i ammin achenitham - Farewell Maglor...my heart shall weep until it sees you again
> 
> (S) Nan lû govaded vîn - Until next we meet
> 
> ~ Thanks to www.realelvish.net for the useful little phrase books! ~


	4. Breaking the Spell

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  


 _~ Fourth Age ~_

  


Slowly, the sun rose above the mountains; flanking the rugged coastline, painting the gently waving sea in shades of gold and orange. The cry of a gull and the faint rippling of the small mountain stream were the only sounds to be heard in the early hours of the cool autumn morning. An icy north wind stirred; blowing across the shore, carrying an unmistakable scent heralding the upcoming winter.

In a small cave at the foot of the mountain, the dim, red glow of embers illuminated the shapes of two elves; nestled closely in each other’s arms in a warm cocoon of soft furs. Gently, Círdan’s fingers ghosted across the silken skin of his sleeping lover; hovering momentarily above a faint, silvery scar on Maglor’s shoulder. The scar had not been there when they had met last. Almost five decades had passed since their last, secret encounter…for Círdan, it seemed as if they had been ages.

Círdan knew the time for them to part had come again; yet he did not rise and leave, he could not…this time was different. Sliding his hand over Maglor’s hip in a light caress, Círdan felt the Noldo shift in his embrace and move closer; the elf’s arousal pressing hard against his upper leg seeking blissful friction. Maglor murmured in his sleep; incoherent words…yet he did not stir. Soft lips caressed the tender skin of Círdan’s throat; causing a pleasant, tingling sensation.

Sliding his hand between their bodies, Círdan wrapped his fingers around his lover’s member; beginning to stroke him slowly. A deep, content sigh escaped Maglor’s slightly parted lips as his hips began to rock into the caress; pressing closer against his lover. Círdan could become lost in the beautiful vision the singer presented; eyes still unfocussed, a light flush creeping over pale skin blanketed by long, tousled strands of ebony hair.

Capturing Maglor’s lips in a tender kiss, Círdan continued to stroke him until his lover’s breathing quickened; shuddering and moaning in his arms while his warm seed spilled over Círdan’s hand and both their bellies, feeling slick between their warm bodies. Slowly, the singer’s eyes focused; glancing about as he tried to catch his breath until finally seeking those of his lover, his expression surprised. Maglor did not resist when Círdan kissed him deeply and slowly; melting into the kiss until he drew back, looking at his lover questioningly.

“Come with me,” Círdan murmured softly, not bothering to hide his uncertainty.

Sucking in his breath, the words sank into Maglor’s mind and he stared at his lover in utter shock. First disbelief, then anger welled up within his mithril eyes and he jumped to his feet, storming out of the cave without a word. Círdan did not follow him right away. They needed to talk…for the first time, yet he knew he had to grant the singer a few moments to calm down first. He had known this would not be easy; long had he pondered what to say…he had mulled over it for centuries.

Slowly peeling himself out of the furs, Círdan walked out of the cave and over to the small stream to cleanse himself. He then turned to Maglor who was just emerging from the icy sea; rivulets of water streaming down his tall, lean body. Moving over to his lover, Círdan was about to speak when strong hands seized his shoulders in an vise-like grip; shaking him, long fingers digging painfully in his flesh. He could not suppress the pained hiss that escaped him, yet the pain he felt in his heart when he saw the icy expression in the singer’s eyes hurt even more.

“How darest thou ask me this?” Maglor hissed angrily, glaring daggers at his lover. “Why destroyest thou all we have…breaking the spell that has bound us for more than two millennia?”

Círdan did not know what to say, his head was reeling; his inner turmoil causing him to shiver as Maglor still held him by his shoulders. He had thought about this conversation countless times; had known how the singer would react…yet now that the time had come, words failed him.

“Why now?” Maglor yelled at his lover furiously.

“Because this is my last chance to ask thee,” Círdan replied after a long silence; his voice unsteady. “How could I ask not? There will be no other opportunity… _no next time._ ”

“Thou wilt sail, then,” the singer stated flatly; keeping his voice bare of emotion.

“I am finally relieved from my duties; my task in Middle-earth is done.” Círdan acknowledged with a slow nod. “They gave me leave to go.”

“May thy winds be fair, ancient one,” Maglor murmured with a sad smile, all his anger draining from him as he gazed into the sea-green pools of his lover’s eyes; an icy numbness creeping over his heart, making him feel hollow.

“Come with me,” Círdan whispered again, caressing Maglor’s cheek with a shaking hand.

“There is no place for me in Valinor; neither am I free to go,” the singer replied sternly, stepping away from his lover. “Thy soul will recover from its weariness, and thou wilt rejoice in thy new life…”

“Nay…” Círdan tried to object, but was cut short by the singer’s raised hand.

“Leave behind what happened betwixt us” Maglor exclaimed, turning away from Círdan. “Thou wilt find peace there, a favour I will never be granted. I will never earn _their_ forgiveness…this is my doom!”

“ _I_ forgave thee a long time ago!” Círdan exclaimed. “Why should the Valar _not_ be willing to grant thee forgiveness as well? How canst thou know?”

“Because they are not even willing to _hear_ me,” Maglor shot back; turning around to grip Círdan’s shoulders again. “I have called out to them for _ages_ , asking for their forgiveness… they have never answered! They have forsaken me and chosen to ignore my pleas!”

“Stop wallowing in thy cursed self pity!” Círdan cried, pushing Maglor away in a sudden fit of anger. “How _can_ they forgive thee, when thou art not even able to forgive thyself? It is not _them_ who shut thee out…it is _thee_! _Thou_ art not willing to listen; thou hast closed thy heart against their call, refusing to believe thou art worthy of forgiveness!”

“I cannot go to Valinor; not even if the Valar _would_ allow me,” Maglor responded stubbornly, turning away from Círdan, his gaze wandering over the sea.

He had long given up hope to ever be permitted to come to Valinor again…hope could easily be crushed; this would be even more bitter than simply accepting his lonely fate. There was no redemption for the guilt he carried in his heart; nothing could wash away the blood staining his hands. Círdan was right; he did not think he deserved forgiveness…neither from the Valar nor the Elves. How could he walk the Blesses Lands and find peace there, when he thought himself tainted and unworthy?

Gently, Círdan wrapped his arms about Maglor, holding him for a long while; each of them finding comfort in the silent closeness that had soothed them from the beginning. Was this the end; the last time they would embrace thus? The mere thought of never being able to hold his lover again made Círdan shudder; even though they had rarely met, he had always known there would be a next time. How could he simply let go of the one who he had come to love deeply over the years?

“It is never too late for a new beginning,” Círdan murmured against the singer’s ear. “Think upon my words, thou wilt have much time during winter. I will be back in spring…wait for me.”

Kissing Maglor’s cheek one last time, Círdan went back to the cave to gather his clothes and retrieve his pack and weapons. He quickly dressed; then, after a last glace at his lover, took off along the shore to where he had hidden his ship. Could he really dare hoping Maglor would change his mind? He knew he should not; chasing a dream would only leave him heartbroken in the end…yet he could not keep a small grain of hope from burgeoning deep within his heart.

  


*~*~*

  


Huddling in a crevice, Maglor drew his cloak tightly around his shoulders; waiting for the thunderstorm to pass. He had abandoned his hideaway, as soon as the snow had melted, the first sign heralding the coming of spring. He turned northward, travelling in the shelter of the old pine forests along the coast; yet it seemed as if the land itself turned against him and he barely made any progress.

The shores were partly flooded and Maglor was forced to retreat further up the wooded sides of the mountains. Small streams swelled into raging torrents of meltwater; causing landslides and uprooting trees all along their paths. The ground on the hillsides was muddy, slippery and trenched with deep clefts, repeatedly forcing him to search for safer passage. Strong, icy storms wrecked the land, bringing rain that never seemed to end; wetting him to the bone.

Usually, Maglor remained in his winter hideaway until the weather became mild and sunny; yet this year he had departed regardless of this, his urge to flee driving him on relentlessly. He could not remain. He needed to leave this region behind as quickly as possible; there would be time for rest later. The bit of sky Maglor could see above the forest was still darkened by clouds; the thunderstorm had not yet ceased, but the rain had lessened. Unwilling to waste any more time, he slipped from the sheltering crevice, shouldered his pack and moved on.

Maglor became aware of a low rumble from above, rapidly becoming louder… too late, his efforts to seek shelter from the slipping rocks was in vain. He almost reached a small crevice, when suddenly a sharp pain exploded in his head; making his vision blur. He stumbled on, feeling something warm trickle along his temple and throat; absently touching his hand to it he realised it was blood. His knees gave in and he fell to the ground, helplessly tumbling down the hillside…then everything went blank.

  


*~*

  


Slowly, the dark veil clouding Maglor’s mind lifted; he tried to open his eyes and move, but moaned as a wave of pain washed over his entire body, forcing tears from beneath his closed eyelids. He felt cool fingers tenderly ghosting over his brow; the soft, warm brush of fur against his bare skin…then the pain lessened as a gentle, warm wave coursed through is body. Sighing contently, he dozed off again; sleep pulling him into a soothing embrace.

When next he awoke, Maglor found it was dark around him; slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he assumed he must be in a cave. When he shifted his head he gazed into what seemed to be two fathomless pools of deepest blue; staring at him unwinkingly. Maglor gasped in surprise when a soft, silvery glow slowly began to illuminate the translucent shape of a woman who was regarding him with a gentle smile.

Her skin was white, hued with a slightly pearly sheen. A translucent dress that glittered like nacre enveloped her slender body; and long, bluish-silver hair adorned with small, delicate shells cascaded down her back, pooling on the ground. She did not speak, but when her cool fingers brushed his brow, Maglor again felt a soothing, warm wave wash over him; driving away the dull ache he still felt in his body.

“Uinen,” he whispered awed, trying to sit up. “ _Thou_ comest to me, beautiful Lady of the Sea?”

“Hush child, thou needest to rest,” her soft, clear voice spoke soothingly, as he felt himself being guided down to lie on the fur again. “I found thee upon the shore; thou hast been unconscious for almost a day.”

Unconscious? Absentmindedly he reached up, touching the swelling at his temple. Yes…he could remember now; he had taken a bad fall after a stone had hit him when he had heedlessly left his shelter during a thunderstorm. He should have remained in the sheltering crevice, yet…

“Why dost thou flee?” Uinen asked gently. “What art thou afraid of, child?”

“I am not afraid, my Lady,” Maglor replied defiantly.

“Yet thou runnest,” she stated, eyeing him implacably. “Why canst thou not simply _accept_ the love and support thou hast been offered?”

“I cannot…” Maglor murmured, averting his eyes from her penetrating gaze.

“Because thou refusest to believe thou deservest it?” She questioned calmly, tilting up his chin with her hand. “Círdan is wise, he would not give his heart to someone unworthy of his love.”

“Tell me my Lady,” Maglor whispered, “ _am_ I worthy of it?”

“Each of Eru’s children is worthy of learning forgiveness,” Uinen answered patiently, sensing the singer’s defiance flaring up again.

“If it is as thou sayest, Lady,” Maglor stated dryly, “why has none of you ever answered my pleas? I called to you for ages, but there never came a reply.”

“We heard thee, and we watched thee all those years,” she replied sadly. “I often visited thee, though thou didst not see me. But how can we answer thee when thy heart is not open to our reply?”

 _‘It is not them who shut thee out…it is thee!’_ Could it be Círdan’s words had been true? Was the barrier he had erected around his heart for protection too strong to be broken even by the Valar? Was his own denial the reason why his pleas had been answered with silence? He had not dared to hope through the long ages…now it was too late; he had destroyed the chance given him with his stubborn pride. He had refused the hand Círdan had extended to him; he had fled from him…now his lover was gone.

What worth was left in returning home now? He knew he had hurt Círdan deeply, he could not undo it even though he wished; the elf would certainly not forgive him. Not even Valinor would soothe the pain he felt; nothing would ever fill the hollowness the loss of his lover had left within his heart. There was nothing for him in Aman, he could very well remain here…and slowly fade.

Ignoring Uinen’s presence, Maglor turned away from her; curling into a tight ball. Renewed pain washed over his bruised body, but he did not care…he deserved no better. Silent tears ran down his pale cheeks and he did not fight when finally exhaustion overwhelmed him. _‘It is not yet too late to turn back, child.’_ Maglor only faintly registered the gentle words spoken directly into his mind before he was pulled into a darkness that promised sweet oblivion.

  


*~*~*

  


Even though he fought it, the faint hope of still finding Maglor in his refuge when spring came had blossomed in Círdan’s heart. All the way to the cave he had left behind in autumn a strange apprehension gripped him; sending a dreadful chill down his spine. He needed not look into the cave to know Maglor had broken camp, his heart told him long before his presentiment was confirmed by his own eyes.

The wooden frame of the makeshift door, the fireplace and the moss-filled wooden frame that had served as a bed were still there, as well as a few logs of hardwood and a small pile of books; yet apart from this the cave was deserted. The emptiness of the cave felt as a dagger plunged into his heart; he could not stand it. Turning on his heel he fled to the shore. Sinking to his knees, Círdan buried his hands in the cool sand; clenching them to fists.

He should not have been so stupid to believe his words could have convinced Maglor…he had never stood a chance; yet he had been too blind to see it. The singer’s seeking for closeness despite his defiance, the way he had touched and kissed him; the hidden flicker of deep affection in the mithril eyes…all this had belied Círdan hope that Maglor’s denial could be broken. He should have known it would come down to this, but despite the wisdom of ages, he had followed the call of his heart.

Círdan could not tell how long he had been kneeling by the sea, crying silent tears of grief; night had fallen, his limbs felt stiff and soft rain had dampened his clothes. Slowly, he came back to his feet, and without looking back he made to leave; his heart feeling hollow.

  


~ * ~ * ~ * ~


	5. Not Yet Too Late?

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  


Ithil stood high in the cloudless sky and countless stars twinkled in the canopy of deepest blue. The gently waving sea was painted in a soft, silvery glow; the steady lapping of the waves against the shore the only sound breaking the peaceful silence. The mild breeze stirred long strands of ebony hair, making them float around the tall, lean shape of the elf who watched the scene. He stood motionless as a statue, his pale skin glowing beneath Ithil’s beams as if he was carved out of white marble.

Countless times Maglor had stood like this, gazing out at the sea with longing; his heart filled with sadness, grief and despair, loneliness making him feel numb and hollow inside. The sea had never soothed him; never given him peace, only awaking tormenting memories and despair within him…

Long arms encircled him, and with a sigh Maglor leaned back against the warm body of his lover, revelling in the comforting warmth it exuded.

…but those times were past. When he gazed at the sea now, he could see its beauty; even though there were still painful memories, the peace he felt was deeper. For millennia he had not dared hoping he could ever feel thus again; yet everything had changed…he had been granted to start anew. The guilt he had felt for ages had not vanished; it was still weighing heavily on him…yet he had begun to accept his worthiness of a new life.

At times, Maglor felt as if all this was only a dream; the dreadful fear of suddenly awakening alone and desperate often creeping up within him like an icy shadow. In those moments, the singer needed Círdan’s closeness more than ever. His lover, as if sensing he was needed, never let him down; holding and silently reassuring him until his anguish passed. He had almost lost Círdan; acting thoughtlessly, driven away by his self contempt and denial…he had come back almost too late.

In silence, the two lovers stood on the balcony of their new home, gazing at the nightly sea. Snuggling closely into his lover’s warm embrace, Maglor’s thought drifted off again, recalling all the things that had happened before they had finally departed Mithlond; sailing for Aman…

  


~ ~ ~

  


…When Maglor awakened, he had no recollections how he came to be in the cave, naked and wrapped in his furs. He thought he might have dragged himself to this sheltered place in a half conscious state; his head injury causing the lapse of memory. The singer did not know how long he had been in the cave; yet his bruised, aching body told him not much time could have passed.

Maglor decided it would be best to grant his body some time longer to heal, but a strange premonition did not allow him to rest. It felt as if he heard a soft, persistent whisper at the back of his mind… _not yet too late_ …and it urged him on; awaking a faint hope within him he had not felt for ages and was not able to resist. Slowly, the singer dragged himself to his feet; wincing with every movement, yet he did not allow the pain to stop him…he had no time; he needed to be on his way.

After donning his tattered garments and gathering his weapons, Maglor tied the furs to his pack and carefully shouldered it. The pain was almost unbearable, forcing tears to his eyes. His bruised ribs made every breath he took true torment; yet he did not relent, quickly stepping out of the cave. On his way…but to where? He had been journeying northward, fleeing from Círdan…a pang of guilt and regret hit him like an arrow; pain and longing washing over his heart.

 _Not yet too late_ …again the whisper; making the faint hope Maglor felt bloom like a flower in the first warm rays of the spring sun. Could it be Círdan’s words had been true? Was there forgiveness waiting for him, if he only reached out his hand to accept it? Doubts crept from the depths of his mind… _no_ , he was deceiving himself; there was no place for him in Aman, his hope would be shattered and he would end up hurt.

Hurt…what was there to lose? He was already suffering; if he was turned away, it would only prove what he already knew. The only thing he could lose was his life…but without Círdan, what worth was there to his life? Rare as their encounters had been, Maglor could not imagine how he could have lived without them…he had always drawn strength from their times together. Defiance was not the sole thing that kept him from fading; it also were those fleeting, precious moments…the knowledge that there would be a next time.

A next time? But Círdan was gone; certainly his lover had already found the abandoned cave, returning to Mithlond with a broken heart. _Not yet too late_ …if he could not catch Círdan in time at the winter refuge, maybe he could reach Mithlond before his lover departed. He needed to try…he could only win. If the last ship had already sailed from Mithlond, he could still try to build his own and follow. If the Valar were willing to forgive him, they would allow him to find the Straight Road.

Maglor travelled without pause, even though his aching body screamed for rest; he had not time to waste. In his haste he stumbled more than once, only to struggle to his feet again; dragging himself on. There was something, a strange sensation deep within his heart…a _call_. He had never felt it before, yet it gave him strength and grew steadily stronger the closer he came to the winter refuge. Was _this_ what had led Círdan all those years?

The singer was close to collapse, but when the trees finally thinned out, allowing him a clear view of the bay; he could make out the lonely shape of a person on the shore. Pushing on by sheer willpower, Maglor covered the remaining distance; reaching Círdan just when the elf turned to leave; oblivious of his presence.

“Forgive me,” the singer whispered; his knees gave way and he collapsed, caught by his lover’s embrace. Maglor faintly registered being lifted by strong arms before he fainted.

  


*~*

  


When Maglor awoke, he lay on the same soft bed of moss and fur he and his lover had shared so often when they had met last. A small fire illuminated the cave in a soft, warm glow; he was cradled against a strong chest, his lover’s warm skin flush against his own. With a deep, content sigh, Maglor pressed himself closer; moaning when his lips were captured in a long and tender kiss.

They needed no words, they never had; but when Círdan gently kissed each bruise and scratch on Maglor’s body with utmost love and devotion before applying a soothing balm, the singer for the first time felt the depth of the elf’s feelings for him. All those years Círdan must have held back, knowing it would cause the singer to flee from him…the unveiled intensity of his love was overwhelming; washing over Maglor like a warm, blissful wave.

Within two days, Maglor had made almost a full recovery and was fit to travel once more. Only faint bruises and an occasional, light stinging sensation at his ribs remained, but they would not be a hindrance. Yet they stayed one day longer, worshiping and savouring their reunion without holding back their feelings and longings…and another day to recover from it. The fear of being repelled by the Valar was still present in the singer’s mind, but Círdan’s reassurance and his renewed hope kept Maglor from brooding.

When they finally broke camp in the morning, Maglor was surprised Círdan did not lead him along the shoreline in the direction the elder elf had taken when departing in autumn. Círdan led him up the wooded hillside; along the small mountain stream that cascaded down the rocky landscape. They soon reached the ridge of the low mountains; a densely wooded plateau stretching southward as far as Maglor’s eyes could see.

On the eastern side, the mountains gently sloped down to the lush, green plains of Forlindon; the pines soon mingling with deciduous trees. Maglor had been here in autumn to find hardwood for his stock of firewood, yet the beautiful sight of the spring-kissed plains left him breathless. In silence, they started to descend until near noontime when they reached a small, clear mountain lake where Círdan called a halt.

Unpacking cheese and apples from his pack, Círdan unrolled a fur and spread it next to a boulder; meeting his lover’s questioning gaze.

“And now, ancient one?” Maglor asked, drawing Círdan into a kiss.

Turning away from Maglor, Círdan gave a loud whistle before he comfortably settled on the fur, motioning for the singer to sit with him.

“Now, we wait!” The old elf murmured smiling, handing Maglor a chunk of cheese and an apple. “There is no need to hurry; the last few inhabitants of Mithlond will not leave before my return. They are readying everything for the departure.”

“Didst thou tell them…” Maglor started, trailing off when he thought of what would await him.

“They know I went to find thee. Even though they were surprised, none spoke against it,” Círdan stated thoughtfully. “I will not hide my feeling for thee when we reach Mithlond…I am not ashamed of them. If, against my expectations, problems occur, I will stand by thee.”

“I thank thee,” Maglor murmured, pulling Círdan into a tight embrace.

Soon the air was filled with the light sound of hooves quickly coming closer. A tall, proud chestnut stallion appeared moments later, followed on his heel by a beautiful silver-gray mare who tried to outrun her companion; their long manes waving in the air like banners. Neighing happily, they greeted Círdan; the stallion all the while curiously watching Maglor out of dark eyes.

“The horses need exercise after being confined to their stable for most of the winter, else they will only cause trouble when we finally bring then aboard,” Círdan explained; smiling as he patted his affectionate mare. “I spared them descending to the shore, lest they come to harm. I knew they would not stray, but remain close to the lake.”

“They are magnificent,” Maglor answered admiringly as he met the challenging gaze of the stallion; petting its velvety nose. “I thought the renowned shipwright would only have an eye for beautifully crafted ships.”

“I have an eye for _thee_ ,” Círdan chuckled, stepping closer to his lover. “Rochiril and Tálagor are almost inseparable. Tálagor is a bit wild and stubborn at times; but as the two of you have so much in common, I think you might get along well.”

“Thou shouldst better hold thy tongue,” Maglor exclaimed, glaring at his lover with mock annoyance. “Or I will throw thee into the lake, as thou art so fond of water. I bet the fish will be pleasant company.”

The horses were a most pleasant surprise for the singer, as Maglor had been without a horse for long. When venturing further inland, he had at times found a horse that had gone astray from its herd, but the way of life he had lived for millennia was not suited for keeping a horse. Pointing to a crevice in a nearby rock, Círdan revealed bridles and light saddles he had hidden there; keeping them shielded from the rain.

When they set out again they let the horses pick the pace; racing along the green plains beneath the peerless blue sky. At times they stopped, hunting small game while searching for a nice spot to make camp. At night, they made love beneath the stars until they fell asleep in each other’s arms, knowing the keen senses of the horses would warn them in case of danger. Only when they neared Mithlond did Maglor grow thoughtful, trying to hide his nervousness. Yet Círdan knew, silently reassuring his lover with small smiles and gentle gestures.

  


*~*

  


Maglor had seen the Grey Havens many times from afar; yet when the sunset overlaid the ancient city in a soft glow just as they approached, Maglor was overwhelmed by the majestic sight. Upon their arrival, it was as Círdan had predicted; the people of Mithlond greeted Maglor cautiously…yet politely, none speaking against him. The singer was surprised to find the remaining elves bustling about the docks to be a motley crowd; not only Teleri, but also Noldor, Sindar and Silvan Elves who had gathered in Mithlond to finally sail.

They handed their horses to a young stable hand and after Círdan had exchanged a few words with some of the elves, he laid an arm across Maglor’s shoulders and led him to his house. It had been ages since the singer had lodged in such a noble place; and when Círdan finally closed the door of his private chambers behind them, Maglor pulled his lover into a tight embrace and cried…unable to put the joy he felt in words.

Soon they sat in a pool of hot, steaming water; washing away the dust and grime of their journey while they shared gentle kisses and caresses. On a balcony overlooking the promenade along the quay, a lavish meal waited for them when they emerged from the bath; and after gazing at the star speckled sky for some time longer, they finally retired to bed. Maglor slept as if he was bedded on clouds; a soft mattress, fluffy pillows, wrapped in silken bedcovers…the warm body of his lover closely pressed against his own.

The next morning, one of Círdan’s men came to give a report about the progress of the preparations. Maglor knew there certainly waited a lot of work for his lover, yet Círdan insisted upon giving him a short tour of Mithlond before parting from him with a long kiss and a deep sigh. Círdan dropped in again to have lunch with him, but before they could even finish their meal Círdan was called to the docks. The elder elf left in a hurry, but not before kissing his lover deeply; promising he would make up for every minute they were parted.

Maglor did not mind, he picked up his harp went to one of the small pavilions along the promenade; losing track of time while he played. When he emerged again from his world of music, he saw a small crowd had gathered about him; gazing at him in awe. Children sat by his feet, cheerfully clapping their hands while the young maiden looking after them blushed; shyly asking Maglor to play another song. The glee of his young audience touched him deeply, so he played for them until their parents came and called them for supper; thanking him with polite smiles.

The next morning Maglor paced the house restlessly; he could not sit by and wait while others were busy packing whole households and loading ships. He searched for Círdan, wishing to ask the elf to assign him a task; yet as his lover was nowhere to be found, he finally approached one of the elves; offering his help. The elf seemed surprised at first, but after a moment of thought led Maglor to the library and told him they needed every helping hand with carrying all the cases of books to the gathering place at the docks to be loaded on the ships.

Círdan smiled when he saw Maglor had found something to occupy himself; yet he was not sure if working at the docks would keep the singer from brooding. During the next few days they settled into a comfortable routine; parting after breaking their fast, meeting again for lunch and spending the rest of the evening together after supper. Often, they took long walks along the moonlit promenade, or retired early when longing overcame them; joining their bodies in passionate loveplay.

One morning a young Noldo, who introduced himself as Anfael, approached Maglor; asking if he wished to help him with the horses. The singer recognised the lad as the stable hand that had taken care of their horses upon their arrival and as the work promised to be a nice diversion, he followed the elf to the stables. Two saddled horses waited for them, one of them Tálagor; who greeted Maglor happily, softly nuzzling his hands and cheeks. Soon they headed northwards along the gulf at a lazy pace.

“We let the horses move freely along the gulf to graze the soft spring grass;” Anfael explained, eyeing Maglor with curiosity. “They need exercise after the winter, but they are nervous and some wandered too far, refusing the whistle that should normally call them back.”

“They sense the atmosphere of departure;” Maglor murmured absentmindedly. He felt just as nervous as the horses; his unease had risen every day he had spent at the docks.

“You are right, my Lord. They feel something is about to happen;” Anfael agreed with a smile. “Most of the horses were sent ahead with the ships departing last autumn, but we needed some for hunting or patrolling along the borders.”

“And thou art to take care for the horses all alone, Anfael?” Maglor asked, observing the younger elf.

“A small party of Silvan Elves arrived just before winter fell; they look after their own horses,” Anfael replied, gently petting the neck of his steed. “Most stable hands departed with the horses last autumn, there are two others, but they are busy helping their wives with packing their households.”

“Needest thou not pack thine own household, Anfael?” The singer questioned boldly, growing to like the company of the young elf.

“Nay,” Anfael exclaimed; blushing slightly. “All my belongings fit in two wooden chests; I am ready to depart when the journey starts. The horses are my life, I am most grateful Lord Círdan did not send me ahead; but allowed me to stay till spring.”

They picked up speed, racing along the green meadows; spending the rest of the morning with chasing behind stubborn horses that tried to outrun them. At noontime, they settled beside the water; sharing a small meal of bread, cheese and fruits, bathing in the warm spring sun. Maglor suddenly realised Círdan probably awaited him for lunch, but Anfael told the singer with a cheeky grin that Círdan knew they had departed.

In the afternoon, they reached Mithlond again; a small herd of tousled horses in tow that needed grooming. Joined by the two other stable hands, they tended the horses; deciding it was best to keep them in the stables at night lest they run off again. Time flew by. Anfael was pleasant company and kept Maglor from brooding; he did not even realize it was already evening until arms wrapped about his waist and Círdan softly kissed his neck. Wishing Anfael a good night, the lovers left; soon enjoying a long hot bath in Círdan’s pool…

  


~ ~ ~

  


…Coming back from his musings, Maglor turned in Círdan’s embrace and gazed into his lovers sea green eyes. An expression Círdan could not quite place played across the singer’s features, but he had not time to give it another thought, as Maglor’s hands started to roam his body; teasing an caressing him while manoeuvring him inside again.

“Thou didst send him to me,” Maglor murmured; playfully biting his lover’s ear, before he pressed Círdan down onto their large, soft bed.

“Whom?” Círdan asked, taken aback by the sudden question.

“Anfael,” Maglor purred; pinning Círdan beneath his body. He tied the elder elf’s wrists to the headboard with a silken sash while slowly grinding his groin against his lover’s rapidly growing arousal. “He did not approach me by chance in Mithlond; thou didst send him purposely…he said thou didst know I was with him.”

“And now, weeks later, thou wishest to punish me…” Círdan stated, moaning deeply when Maglor bit one of his nipples before licking it soothingly.

In the following hours, Maglor sent his lover through the sweetest torment Círdan could imagine. There was no patch of skin the singer did not worship; licking, biting and teasing until Círdan could do naught but moan and beg; yet the singer denied him release for long. Maglor brought Círdan to the edge again and again, until his lover could take no more and the singer finally rode them to their climax at a merciless pace.

“Thy plan did work,” Maglor whispered, pulling Círdan into his arms. “He kept me from brooding about the upcoming departure.”

“Then I suppose it was worth the punishment,” Círdan murmured sleepily. “I will certainly be sore for at least two days.”

  


~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (S) Rochiril - Horse Lady
> 
> (S) Tálagor - Fast Foot
> 
> (S) Anfael - Generous Gift


	6. Reunion

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  


They had finally found peace in their new home; the weariness of ages falling off, the constant melancholy and guilt the singer felt slowly diminishing. Thinking back upon the events following upon their arrival at Tol Eressëa, to Maglor all still appeared as a beautiful dream that had finally come true…

  


~ ~ ~

  


…They had left behind Middle-earth almost two months ago; after two weeks of preparations. The last few ships departed one after another within a few days, until only Maglor, Círdan and a handful of elves remained…the last ship departing from the Grey Havens. Unease had welled up within the singer when he found he and Círdan would not be the sole passengers of the last ship; the faint fear that the wrath of the Valar would descend upon them, drowning their ship in the depths of the sea.

Yet none of the other elves seemed to be worried, attending their business just as they had done during the last few weeks. Anfael was one of them. The young elf had stubbornly refused to depart as long as there were still horses to tend in Mithlond; even though there were only Rochiril, Tálagor and Anfael’s own stallion Daeroch left. The other horses and most of their belongings had already been sent ahead on the other ships; thus they would travel lightly.

They already loaded the horses, as well as the last cases the night before their departure; thus the beasts would have time to adjust to the limited space and the rocking motion of the ship. Tálagor at first refused to walk up the loading bay to the ship and then down to the horseboxes below deck, but after Maglor and Anfael had spent some time soothing the nervous stallion, he finally complied.

While the other elves left to share a last bottle of wine before finally retiring to bed, Anfael decided to remain with the horses for a while longer, in case they grew too nervous. When searching for Anfael the next morning, Maglor found him asleep on the hay in the box of his stallion; faint traces of tears were still visible on the young elf’s face. Still, Maglor chose to not comment on this when gently waking the lad to join them for breakfast.

Maglor felt oddly calm when they finally set sails and departed. He could read in the other elves’ faces they left with mixed feelings; looking forward to being reunited with their loved ones, yet leaving behind a place they had called their home for so long. The only things the singer left behind were his loneliness and ages of grief, but he felt for his lover who had been the Lord of Mithlond since it had been built. Rubbing soothing circles on the elder elf’s back, Maglor felt a deep shudder course through Círdan when they finally departed the Gulf of Lhûn; sailing out on the open sea.

The further they sailed, the more Maglor’s calm was replaced by unease. When he finally felt a strange tingle…the presence of ancient magic; he knew they had almost reached the Straight Road. A wave of fear and terror overwhelmed him; making his knuckles turn white as he gripped the railing in a vice-like grip. What if the Valar had not forgiven him? Would their ship be wrecked in the roaring sea?

“All will be well,” Círdan whispered soothingly, pulling his lover into a tight embrace.

The tingling sensation increased; washing over Maglor like a warm wave. One moment it felt as if time would stand still; the breeze and the soft billowing of the ocean ceased until there was only silence…and then it was over. The ship smoothly skipped across the ocean, a fair wind carrying the vessel quickly westwards. Yet something felt different…it was as if the air was cleaner, the sky bluer and the sun brighter. Inhaling deeply, Maglor felt a deep sense of peace envelop him…like a soothing embrace. Then, faintly, he hear it…a whisper inside his mind… _‘Welcome home, child!’_

  


*~*

  


When finally the haven of Avallónë came into view on the seventh evening of their journey, the sight greeting them filled them with awe. A colourful sunset outlined the dark shape of Tol Eressëa. Beyond, the Pelóri rose up on both sides, crowned by orange golden light as if crowned by flames. The quays of the haven were illuminated by colourful lamps; their reflections playing on the water, the beautiful sight accompanied by the joyful songs of the elves who had gathered to greet the last ship arriving from Middle-earth.

Apprehension crept within the singer as he watched the waving crew, while the white ship smoothly glided into the haven. How would he be received by the elves of Aman? Being welcomed by the Valar did not mean he would be automatically accepted by the people. The low rumble of the wooden plank sliding onto the quay ripped the singer out of his musings. The few of Círdan’s men who had sailed with them were quickly surrounded by a cheerful crowd; welcoming their loved ones with laughter as well as tears.

He recognised some of the elves who had departed before them waving at them in welcome; yet there would be no loved ones to greet _him_ , the singer thought. His bothers and father still walked the Halls of Waiting; he knew this in his heart. His mother…he had not sent word ahead to herald his arrival; even if he had, he doubted she would come to meet him. How could she forgive the bitter grief he had caused her…and the shame?

He felt Círdan take his hand, slowly leading him from the ship. People he had never met before patted him on his back and shoulder, nodding at him with a smile and Maglor thought they would probably not do so if they knew who he was. Someone pulled Círdan into an embrace, more elves crowding around the ancient elf forced them apart. Maglor did not mind, his lover had seen many dear friends perish or sail over the ages; he would not begrudge him those precious moments of being reunited with them.

Feeling a bit lost, Maglor emerged from the crowd; absently gazing at the sea when he suddenly heard a soft voice behind him call his name… _Makalaurë_. Confused for a moment, as he had not heard Quenya in ages, Maglor slowly turned and was caught in a tight embrace; waves of long, red brown hair cascading down his shoulders and arms. First he was frozen in shock, but then a warm wave of emotions washed over the singer and he pulled his mother closer, burying his face in her soft hair.

She smelled of roses, just as he remembered; a scent that had always soothed and comforted him during his younger years. For several long moments he dared not look at her, afraid to find accusation and shame in her eyes; but when he heard his mother whisper words of love and the affectionate names she had called him as a child, he finally met her gaze. The moment their eyes locked, Maglor knew the love of a mother is forever unwavering…grief and pain were deeply etched into the gentle features, yet her eyes shone with love and new hope…devoid of judgement.

Long moments they stood unmoving, simply holding one another…weeping tears of joy and relief. Círdan joined them and Maglor could see he had cried as well; wet traces along his cheeks glistening silvery in the moonlight. Casting his lover a questioning glance and then slightly nodding to his mother, Maglor silently inquired if the ancient elf had something to do with their unexpected reunion, but Círdan only shook his head before greeting Nerdanel warmly.

An elf came to lead them to an inn where they would be given rooms to refresh themselves. When they left the quays, Maglor saw the lonely shape of an elf standing in the shadows from the corner of his eye; wiping away tears before silently sneaking back onto the ship, disappearing below deck. Anfael…the singer was sure it had been the young stable hand; yet he could not imagine why the elf sought his solitude when all Avallónë was celebrating. He would ask Círdan about it, but it would have to wait until morning.

Maglor learned his mother had only arrived a few hours ahead of them; and after everyone had quickly washed up, they dined in private in Nerdanel’s quarters; both Maglor and his mother feeling loath to join the crowded celebrations. Círdan understood; both mother and son needed time in privacy to fully comprehend the new situation. After sharing a last glass of wine with them, he excused himself and joined the feast along the quays.

Nerdanel did not ask Maglor about the shameful things he had done in the past, nor about his ages of lonely wandering; the singer knew losing six of her sons to death and one to hopeless despair had wounded her deeply…not even the peace of the Undying Lands had soothed her pain. Later, he picked his harp and played for her; just as he had done long ago. She wept with joy to hear his voice raised in song again…a joyful one, free of grief and mourning.

When he had finished, she asked of Círdan; his ancient lover being renowned throughout Valinor. Maglor could tell his mother was pleased to see him happy; a genuine smile lighting up her features. Uncertainty welled up within Maglor, a thought emerging from his mind he had suppressed since their arrival. Círdan…how would their relationship progress now that they had safely reached Aman? Where would they live? While they were in Mithlond he had pondered this, even though he had not spoken of it to his lover.

Círdan loved the sea. It was a part of his _being_ ; he would never be happy in Tirion amongst the Noldor; living up-country away from the coast was no life for his lover. Was he _himself_ ready to return to Tirion, after all? Amongst Círdan’s folk, he…a kinslayer…would never be accepted; and he knew he would not be able to bear living among them; his guilt weighed too heavily. Sensing Maglor’s thoughts, his mother gently took his hand; gazing at him for several long moments.

“Worry not; there will be a way. Círdan is wise, he will have thought of this already…talk to him of thy concerns, he _will_ understand,” Nerdanel spoke soothingly. “Why not remain on Tol Eressëa for a while? Many elves arriving from Middle-earth linger here until they feel ready to move on.”

“I do not wish to grieve thee, mother;” Maglor murmured, gently caressing Nerdanel’s hand. “Not ever again.”

“I am glad to have thee back _at all_! It would not grieve me if thou decidest to remain on Tol Eressëa;” Nerdanel exclaimed with a smile. “If thou canst find peace here, it will fill my heart with joy…and thou art not out of reach. I am here now and there is _nothing_ that would keep me from visiting thee.”

“I love thee, mother…it soothes me to know it would not disappoint thee. Thou art right, I should discuss this with Círdan,” Maglor stated; very much relieved. “How didst thou come to know of my arrival at all? I was…I could not…”

“Thou didst not dare writing to me as thou wert afraid I would not come out of loathing. I know this…I saw it in thine eyes at the quay.” Nerdanel spoke calmly, understanding colouring her voice. “I received a message about two weeks ago. I knew it was not sent by thee; but even though it was not signed, I knew in my heart it spoke the truth.”

“Two weeks! How can this be?” Maglor exclaimed in surprise. “As I know Círdan did _not_ send the message, I thought it might have been an elf from the ships sailing a few days ahead of us…but none of the ships had yet departed when thou didst receive the message. And those travelling last autumn could not have known I would come…”

“Cease pondering, my son” Nerdanel interrupted Maglor; smiling. “Whoever sent the message, I am glad the person did so. Let us simply accept it as it is…a gift.”

When Círdan stepped onto the balcony next to Nerdanel’s, as their quarters were located next to each other, Nerdanel saw him first and waved happily; casting her son’s lover a bright smile. It amazed Maglor that his mother accepted his lover so easily; it made him feel at ease and gave him hope. Gently kissing his mother’s cheek, Maglor finally wished her a good night and left for his own room; he could see her journey to Tol Eressëa and the excitement of the day had drained her.

Comfortably nestled against the warm body of his lover, the singer finally tried to find rest. Círdan was already fast asleep, a content smile gracing his features; yet Maglor’s mind was reeling and sleep eluded him. He did not know how he should best approach the matter of where they would live. Fearing…even though his lover would doubtlessly understand…the elder elf might feel hurt nevertheless. He had not thought of living on Tol Eressëa before, yet when his mother had spoken of it the idea had felt wise and very comforting.

  


*~*

  


Maglor had no opportunity to speak to Círdan privately the next morning; they were just breaking their fast with Nerdanel when a servant brought a pile of lists Círdan was supposed to take care of. Even though the horses had been tended and already brought to proper stables last night; the newly arrived ships were not yet completely unloaded. The docks were bustling with elves; yet Círdan seemed the only one who could keep track of things, thus he was needed.

Around noontime, Círdan had finally managed to organise what belongings would have to be transferred to other ships in order to be brought to Valinor along with the elves that would travel on within the week. The belongings of the elves remaining on Tol Eressëa would be brought to storehouses and sorted according to the households to which they belonged; together with the items that had already been sent ahead last autumn.

The singer had pondered all morning when he could best address the matter of their new home; not even his mother had been able to keep him from brooding. Nevertheless, when Círdan finally joined Maglor and Nerdanel on the balcony, pinching the bridge of his nose while muttering under his breath, the singer deemed it better to postpone the discussion; not wishing to burden Círdan even more. Handing the elder elf a glass of wine, Maglor gently massaged his lover’s tense shoulders; blushing when his mother cast him a pleased smile at the affectionate gesture.

“What think you of going for a ride and exploring a bit?” Círdan asked suddenly. “I need to clear my mind; even though I am _very_ patient, the crowd out there is robbing me of my sanity.”

“Art thou sure they will not sink half of the belongings in the sea without thee?” Maglor grinned, before growing serious again. “Explore? Círdan, thou canst _not_ possibly mean that!”

“I do. Anfael is just getting the horses ready;” Círdan chuckled, amused at Maglor’s startled expression. He cast Nerdanel a mysterious wink the singer failed to see.

“I think the idea most pleasant,” Nerdanel announced joyfully, rising to leave for her chambers. “I have never been to Tol Eressëa; but I have heard it is a beautiful place. I will be ready in a few minutes.”

“Círdan…” Maglor started when his mother had left, but was silenced by a kiss.

“The chests and furniture will not run away; neither will the maddening crowd,” the elder elf grinned. “I have left orders…they will get along without me for the rest of the day.”

“I wonder if thy sudden craziness stems from thine age…I heard ancient elves can be odd at times.” The singer teased, earning him a nudge to his ribs. “But as thou already hast my mother on thy side, I should know better than to argue about it.”

  


*~*

  


When they arrived at the stables, Anfael was just about to saddle Tálagor; yet when he saw Maglor, the stallion ran to greet the elf, sending the slender stable hand tumbling into a pile of hay. Petting the neck of the impetuous beast, Maglor took it upon himself to ready the horse while Círdan greeted Rochiril and Anfael handed Nerdanel the beautiful, white mare he had chosen for the lady. The party was just ready to set out when the longing glance of the young elf reminded the singer of the sad scene he had seen the evening before.

“I take it thou comest with us, Anfael?” Maglor inquired with a smile, pleased when he saw the face of the lad light up. “I suppose Daeroch would like it very much to run free after being confined to his box in the ship for so long.”

“Daeroch did not like the ship at all. He even snapped at me when I brought him to the stable last night,” the young elf replied concerned, before smiling brightly. “As I had planned to go for a short ride anyway, I saddled him already…before Lord Círdan asked me to ready the horses for you.”

They set out at a lazy pace. As soon as they left Avallónë, they followed a road leading up to the wooded hills; then turned west and followed an old forest road leading along a fresh mountain stream. The horses were pleased to move about freely once more, and their riders did not restrain them when they broke into short sprints before settling into an easy trot again. Círdan and Maglor used the time to simply revel in each other’s presence though they did not speak much; each pondering his own thoughts.

Anfael, on the other hand, was cheerfully chatting with Nerdanel; first telling the lady everything about the beautiful mare Glánloth she rode, then asking her countless questions about Valinor that Nerdanel patiently answered while smiling graciously. They made rest at a clearing where the stream gathered into a small pond surrounded by a flowery meadow; the horses turning to graze while the elves shared bread, cold venison, fruits and wine the cook of the inn had packed for them.

After riding at a lazy pace for some time longer, they left the forest road and rode along a path between the trees that led back toward the hills framing the coast. From the top of a hill they could see the forest finally thinning out; smoothly falling away to a rock plateau overlooking the sea. On the plateau stood a beautiful, spacious mansion; its flawless white walls shining brightly in Anor’s golden rays. The house was surrounded by a neatly tended garden with elaborately crafted pavilions and benches to sit and watch the ocean.

A blossoming hedge growing in a half circle hid what appeared to be a large stone pool overlooking the sea. At the western side of the plateau, white marble stairs led to a private quay were two small, delicately crafted ships were securely moored, rocking on the gentle waves. At the eastern side another marble stair, adorned with a delicately crafted archway overgrown by ivy led to a sandy beach; a vineyard stretching along the sunny hillside framed the shoreline.

“Maybe we should turn back,” Maglor spoke after gazing at the peaceful, secluded haven for some time. Something stirred deep within his heart…the longing for a place just like this. “The inhabitants will certainly not like us to venture further unannounced, invading their privacy.”

“I doubt they will,” Círdan smiled brightly, not failing to see the longing expression in his lover’s eyes. “It is _ours_ …if thou wishest.”

  


~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (S) Daeroch - Shadow Horse
> 
> (S) Rochiril - Horse Lady
> 
> (S) Tálagor - Fast Foot
> 
> (S) Anfael - Generous Gift
> 
> (S) Glánloth - White Flower


	7. A New Home

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  


Absently trailing his hands along the delicate frame of the large harp in front of him, Maglor gazed wandered across the fine tapestries gracing the walls, before he turned toward the window, looking at the sea. It was hard to believe that it had only been a year since the day he had first laid eyes on the beautiful, secluded mansion that was to become his new home, yet strangely it had felt like coming home the moment he had stepped through the entrance doors…

  


~ ~ ~

  


… _‘It is ours…if thou wishest.’_ It took long moments before the meaning of those words sunk into Maglor’s mind; stunned he gazed at his lover and then back at the beautiful house. Círdan rode up next to him, gently laying his hand on Maglor’s, but the singer was at a loss for words; overwhelmed by the emotions he felt. _‘As I said, he is wise!’_ his mother’s thoughts brushed Maglor’s mind in a gentle caress, making him turn to meet her beaming gaze, before turning toward his lover again.

“Thou needst not say anything yet,” Círdan spoke calmly, sensing his lover’s inner tumult. “There is much we have to talk about, but let us have a look around first. Thou needst not make a decision right away.”

“It is…I do not know what to say,” Maglor murmured, still struggling for words. “It is…marvellous.”

“Come; my old friend Dólvaen and his wife Lothwen will already wait to greet us,” Círdan replied, motioning to the elves to follow him. “I spoke to them last night at the feast.”

Riding toward the archway that led into the courtyard, two elves walked up to them from the house, waving at them in greeting. At seeing the two, Anfael jumped off his horse; smiling brightly as he ran up to greet the couple. Chuckling at the joyous outburst of the lad, Círdan, Maglor and Nerdanel dismounted as well and followed.

“I wondered if thou wouldst be able to escape Avallónë for a few hours, Cìrdan.” Dólvaen greeted his friend with a grin before turning toward Maglor and Nerdanel with a warm smile. “I am Dólvaen, and this is my wife Lothwen, we welcome you to this peaceful little haven. Lothwen hath prepared refreshments in the garden; I will see to the horses first and join you in a short while.”

Anfael insisted upon helping Dólvaen with the horses, so the two took off to the stables while Lothwen led the remaining party into the house. The large entrance hall of the mansion was a magnificent sight, Maglor could tell even Círdan was amazed. The white marble floor was inlaid with mosaics of various shades of blue, run through with silvery patterns. Delicately crafted marble pillars, likewise adorned with inlays of silver, rose up to the high ceiling with a dome of stained glass in its centre; illuminating the room with colourful reflections.

Lothwen steered them to a wide, double winged door straight ahead of them at the other end of the hall. It led to a pillared colonnade that ran along the entire front of the house and opened up to the beautiful garden. White gravelled paths wound their way through colourful flowerbeds that adorned the neatly tended lawn; filling the air with a sweet scent. There were delicately carved marble statues and fountains; as well as small groves with pavilions and benches, inviting visitors to sit beneath the many varieties of trees.

In a pavilion overlooking the sea, a table was set out for them offering a variety of small cupcakes and tartlets. Along with these was cool, citron flavoured tea, juice, and fruity white wine. Maglor could see the delighted gleam in his mother’s eyes as she cheerfully chatted with Lothwen; a light flush colouring her cheeks. It warmed his heart to see her thus; for ages he had longed to once more see her smiling and laughing…it still felt like a pleasant dream to him. As if to reassure him that all this was reality, Círdan gently squeezed his hand; casting his lover a genuine smile when Maglor met his gaze.

“Thou didst send someone ahead to build a house?” Maglor murmured, still overwhelmed by Círdan’s surprise. “How couldst thou know I would not feel ready to…”

“To make the whole journey and settle in Valinor?” Círdan finished the sentence, when the singer trailed off. “I was not even sure if thou wouldst come with me, though I never lost hope. I supposed thou wouldst maybe feel reluctant to settle in Valinor right away…I myself do not feel ready yet. I have known this for a very long time.”

“I _do_ have reasons to feel reluctant; obviously,” Maglor replied; feeling uncomfortable when he realized his mother and Lothwen had stopped talking, curiously following their conversation. “But wished thou not to be reunited with thy kin?”

“For us, who have dwelled in Middle-earth all our life, Valinor is a whole new world. Some accustom themselves quickly, others feel out of place…even the Noldor who once walked the Blessed Lands,” Lothwen spoke up gently; casting Maglor a genuine smile. “Dólvaen and I both have close kin in Valinor. We visited them, but even though we love them dearly, we are not yet ready to join them.”

“Lothwen is right,” Dólvaen agreed, joining them at the table with Anfael. “Apart from this, it would only lead to discussions where we should settle, as she is of the Teleri and I am of the Noldor. Here in Tol Eressëa we both feel content, as do our children.”

“I am certain thy wife would have her way, my friend. She made thee stay at the Havens even though it had been thine intention to merely pass through on thy way to Imladris,” Círdan chuckled. “He fell in love with my former head cook’s food, before he even laid his eyes on her. They met first when he was sneaking into the kitchens in search of Lothwen’s famous lemon tartlets.”

“I found the cook to be just as sweet as the tartlets,” Dólvaen grinned, snatching another lemon tartlet from the plate on the table, while his wife blushed and shook her head. “What else could I have done but make her my wife?”

  


*~*

  


They sat together for long, sipping wine while Dólvaen and Lothwen delivered greetings of those of Círdan’s friends who had not been able to personally welcome him at Avallónë. They also told the new arrivals about of Tol Eressëa and the different cities upon the island; about their new life since they had departed Middle-earth two decades ago, and after Nerdanel asked curiously, how they came to know Círdan at all.

Maglor and his mother learned that Dólvaen and Círdan had become friends during the War of Wrath, where they had fought side by side. When Círdan told Dólvaen about his plans to found Mithlond, it turned out his friend was not only a seasoned warrior, but had also been a skilled architect in times of peace. They had similar thoughts; thus Círdan asked the Noldo to help him plan Mithlond and supervise the construction.

Dólvaen accepted, but as his close kin lived in the newly founded Forlond, he joined them when his task was accomplished. When the elves abandoned Forlond after the Last Alliance, Dólvaen’s family chose to sail, while he returned to Mithlond and served as a captain and military strategist of Círdan’s forces. When he finally expressed the wish to retire from his military duty, Dólvaen became one of Círdan’s closest advisors and administered part of the trade, as well as all construction planned in Mithlond.

“I asked Dólvaen the favour of finding a peaceful, secluded place and building a house for us when he told me of his wish to sail. I thought it would be good to have a quiet place waiting for us to withdraw and become accustomed with the new situation, instead of hastily making new plans,” Círdan explained, after Dólvaen and Lothwen had finished. “We vaguely planned the house, yet to actually _see_ the outcome is overwhelming. Thou hast outdone thyself Dólvaen; I do not know how I can thank thee, my friend.”

“Thou hast only seen the exterior, the entrance hall and the gardens so far. Thou canst praise me when thou hast seen the rest,” Dólvaen laughed heartily, while coming to his feet. “I think it is time to give you an extended tour. Lothwen readied rooms for you, as we thought you might like to stay instead of riding back to Avallónë in the middle of the night.”

“I will see if the horses are well,” Anfael murmured, hesitating to follow the small group into the house. Maglor did not fail to see the renewed sad expression on the young elf’s face, again asking himself what could be the reason.

“Oh lad, thy beloved horses will not run. Where is the bold and curious elf who greeted us so boisterously in the courtyard?” Lothwen exclaimed cheerfully, linking arms with the young elf. “Come, I know thou art curious as well.”

Smiling weakly, Anfael gave in and allowed Lothwen to steer him along the path to where the others waited for them. Maglor cast a questioning glance to his lover, noticing that Círdan seemed as worried about the young elf’s strange behaviour as he was; though they would have to discuss this later in privacy.

  


*~*

  


It was as Dólvaen had promised, the entrance hall was merely a small glimpse of the mansion’s splendid magnitude. The house was horseshoe-shaped; three wings of three floors each, the entrance hall rising up along the entire height of all three floors. Wide hallways led from the entrance hall through the middle wing of the house to the attached east and west wings, while two wide staircases on each the eastern and western side of the hall rose up to a gallery on the second floor that circled the entire hall.

A wide hallway on the east of the hall led to various offices overlooking the gardens until it reached the spacious library and reading lounge that occupied the ground floor of the whole east wing. Not all of Círdan’s books had arrived yet; still the high wooden shelves were already well filled with a large assortment that had been neatly categorized. Large, comfortable leather armchairs and settees invited people to sit down and enjoy reading, while desks provided everything needed to work and do research.

The rooms along the hallway overlooking the courtyard were servants quarters, but until now they had been rarely used, as Dólvaen and his wife had mostly maintained the house together with the help of their children. On the western side of the first floor, the spacious kitchen area and storage rooms were located; Lothwen’s domain, even though after both her children had married and moved she only cooked for her husband and herself or occasional guests, Most of the western end of the main wing, and onward where it turned the corner into the west wing itself was dominated by a vast feasting hall overlooking the gardens, but at the farthest end of the wing was also a smaller, private dining hall that had been furnished and decorated with utmost care, exuding a warm and cosy atmosphere.

The floor of the room was made of dark, polished wood, as well as the cabinets along the walls which were adorned with inlays of lighter wood, gold and silver. In the centre of the room was a long table with comfortable, matching chairs; beautifully decorated with fruit arrangements, candles, and sweet smelling fresh flowers. Tapestries and curtains in warm pastel colours, lightly threaded with silver and gold embroideries, graced the walls and high windows; a large glass door led to an adjoining terrace.

The feasting hall was tremendous; the floor and walls all white and light blue marble, pillars inlaid with silvery patterns and delicately crafted statues adorning the room. High, wide windows and glass terrace doors framed by rich curtains in shades of blue and blue-green, heavily embroidered with silver thread, allowed a beautiful view of the gardens and illuminated the hall in a gentle light. From the ceiling hung large silver chandeliers, adorned with a myriad of sparkling jewels. The white ceiling and the marble walls were still plain and needed to be adorned with tapestries and paintings; Dólvaen had decided to wait until Círdan and Maglor arrived in their new home, giving them room for own wishes and ideas.

Climbing up to the second floor, Maglor was most pleasantly surprised that Dólvaen had thought of a spacious music room for him; located at on the eastern half of the middle wing, overlooking the gardens and the sea. There were no instruments and the room was still unfurnished and unadorned, yet when seeing it Maglor felt at home immediately; a bright smile spreading over his features while his thoughts wandered in envisioning how he would make the room his own private little haven.

Across the gallery, on the other side of the middle wing was an equally sized room, designed to serve as a conference room or for smaller festivities. This room was likewise unfurnished and unadorned, as Dólvaen had not been sure if Círdan and Maglor would like to have new furniture made or would decide to use what Círdan had sent ahead from Mithlond. Dólvaen and Lothwen had their private quarters in a self-contained area that occupied a large part of the west wing; in the remainder of the second floor were comfortably furnished guest chambers of different sizes.

On the third floor, the private chambers of Círdan and Maglor were located. On the western end of the section were a large living room, a private study, a small, private library with a comfortable reading area and a large terrace; beautifully adorned with pots of ornamental bushes and trees as well as fragrant flowers. Comfortable benches and divans invited them to sit outside. On the eastern side of the floor were a spacious bedchamber, a vast bathing chamber with a separate dressing room and another large terrace, with an outside pool in a green haven of bushes and flowers.

The centre of the bed chamber was the large four-poster bed that stood slightly elevated on a round dais of white marble steps. The curtains to the sides of the bed were made of dark blue velvet, embroidered with silver thread, yet the canopy was of a translucent material, adorned with countless small jewels that sparkled like tiny stars. In the ceiling above the bed was a dome of shaded glass, where at night Ithil’s soft beams would illuminate the bed in a silvery glow.

The side of the sleeping chamber where the entrance door was located was adorned with cabinets made of dark polished wood and inlaid with silver; decorated with vases of fresh flowers. At the opposite side of the room a double winged door led into the dressing chamber; framed in the same shape as the door, a build-in had been embedded into the wall, small statues adorning the shelves. Betwixt the door and the shelves was a large fireplace of white marble, soft pelts and cushions on the floor as well as two divans in which to snuggle up before the fire and relax.

High windows overlooked the sea and a large glass door led to a balcony that ran along the entire front of the house, connected to the two terraces. On the other side of the room comfortable leather armchairs were placed before the windows that overlooked the courtyard and the forest; attached to another small balcony. The magnificence of the house was overwhelming. Dolvaen had outdone himself, yet the Noldo refused to accept any praise until he had showed the newcomers the private bathing chambers; calling them the treasure of the house.

Dólvaen had not exaggerated. The marble floor and walls of the vast bathing chamber were adorned with a mosaic of various shades of blue; high windows with shaded glass illuminating the room in a soft, bluish light. A large, steaming pool of blue marble was the center of the bathing oasis and at one side of the bathing chamber there was a low, semi-circular tub at the floor and a tap coming out from the wall; when using the tap water cascaded down from an opening higher at the wall like a small waterfall.

A marble plate with two embedded silver basins and a large, intricately crafted mirror behind served as a washstand; beneath, a lavishly adorned cabinet held towels, washcloths, soaps, and oils. In a corner of the bathing chamber translucent blue curtains hid a large, comfortable divan, made to rest after a bath and enjoy a massage; a variety of massage oils waiting to be rubbed onto flawless skin, scented candles spicing the air with an alluring scent.

  


*~*

  


It was already dark outside when they ended the tour of the house and Dólvaen graciously accepted the flood of compliments and praise with a beaming smile. He told them that beside the spacious stables, there was a large public bathhouse in a separate building, a workhouse with a small forge and a storage house, yet they decided to have a look at those the next morning. Instead, they made their way back down to the library; Círdan and Maglor both eager to have a look at the construction plans Dólvaen kept there.

Nerdanel excused herself when they crossed the second floor, wishing to refresh herself in the bath adjoined to her guest quarters and exchange her riding garments with one of the gowns Lothwen had laid out for her. Lothwen took off for the kitchens to prepare a light evening meal they would take in the private dining room later; Anfael in tow to keep her company and help her a bit…but also attempt to cheer up the young lad and keep him from brooding, as he had barely spoken a word since they had left the gardens.

In the library, Dólvaen steered Círdan and Maglor to a large desk and bid them sit, conjuring forth a bottle of wine and three glasses; wishing to drink to a peaceful future in the secluded haven before taking up the plans. Accepting the glass of wine gratefully, Maglor realized the feeling of being overwhelmed he’d had at first had changed…he felt different; a warm excitement he had not felt for millennia washing over him.

“Our new home,” Maglor whispered, leaning closer to his lover. “What thinkest thou, ancient one, shall we stay here? It is a beautiful spot to start a new life.”

“I had already feared thou wouldst jump at me for taking the liberty to have a house built,” Círdan teased with a bright smile, pulling his lover into a gentle kiss. “So thou likest it?”

“Like it? It is marvellous, Dólvaen has truly outdone himself,” the singer exclaimed with shining mithril eyes. “It feeleth like…home!”

“Then our home it shall be. I had hoped thou wouldst decide to stay,” Círdan smiled genuinely, kissing Maglor’s cheek. “I feel the same way…like coming home.”

“Ah, I see the both of you are content with my creation. I am glad to hear you wish to stay,” Dólvaen chuckled, joining the lovers at the desk with a pile of scrolls. “I needed to bargain a bit for this location, as someone else had set his eye on it as well…but thou knowest me Círdan, I will not be satisfied with less than the best. I saw this spot and knew it was perfect.”

“I never doubted thine exquisite taste, my friend, and I also know thy skill of bargaining.” Círdan confirmed with grin. “I knew this undertaking was in the most capable hands. But tell me Dólvaen, what are thy plans? Thou and Lothwen watched over this house for long years, I feel a bit guilty for keeping you waiting for so long.”

“We did not make plans until now, as we did not know when thou wouldst finally sail and if thou wouldst be in company or alone and heartbroken,” Dólvaen answered, casting a short glance at Maglor. “My son married and moved to the western haven of Tol Eressëa, starting a small trading business, while my daughter, her husband and their little one live in Kortirion. Both of them asked us to join them, but we have not decided yet.”

“Dólvaen, thou and Lothwen can take as much time as needed,” Maglor spoke up, smiling at the Noldo. “Thou didst build this wonderful, spacious mansion and guarded it for long. I do not wish to drive you away from here, if thou and Lothwen wish to, stay and live here as well. I am sure Círdan will not mind as you both have been friends of him and part of his household for a very long time.”

“Aye, Maglor is right,” Círdan acknowledge with a nod. “I would be glad if thou and Lothwen would stay. If you like, feel free to do so. There is no need to hurry things, my friend.”

“I thank you so much my friends. Both Lothwen and I have grown to love this place and it would be difficult to part from it after seeing it rise in all its glory,” Dólvaen answered with a beaming smile. “There is still much work ahead; all the belongings waiting in Avallónë, certainly new furniture and adornments will need to be made as well to fill the empty rooms. Everything needs to be arranged and decorated, servants need to be employed…you will need us for quite some time.”

“I wonder how thou and Lothwen managed to maintain the mansion without servants at all,” Maglor exclaimed in surprise. “All those rooms, the gardens…how could you make this work?”

“Oh, it was not as difficult as thou thinkest. Our children did not both move at once, and as most of the rooms were not occupied, they only needed to be cleaned from time to time.” Dólvaen explained. “A small group of gardeners comes here on a regular basis, and sometimes Lothwen hired a group of servants to clean the house up and down. I took care of the stables together with my son, but now there are only three horses left; the forest around takes care of itself. Someone from Avallónë helped me to maintain the ships, as this is not exactly what I am good at, but we only used them to bring supplies.”

“The ships, I will certainly put them to good use,” Círdan grinned. “I am surprised thou didst not sink them at all, Dólvaen. They are not thy favourite means of travel, I know.”

“Aye, I prefer a horse. Horses at least follow my command…” Dólvaen glared but was interrupted when Anfael burst into the library.

“Lothwen sent me to tell you she is almost finished with preparing dinner. She says if you wish to wash up and change your garments before the meal, you should hurry,” Anfael told them with a shy smile. “Lady Nerdanel already joined Lothwen; they will set out the table in the dining room and wait for us.”

“My friends, there is an assortment of clothes waiting for you in your dressing chamber; I am sure you will find something that suits you. But do not become lost in the bathing oasis, we should not let the ladies wait too long,” Dólvaen chuckled. “We were not sure if thou wouldst come as well, Anfael, but the guest chamber next to our quarters is always prepared. I am sure we can find some fitting garments for thee as well. Come on, lad…a quick bath will bring back a smile to your face.”

  


*~*

  


Soon they sat together in the candlelit dining room, enjoying the meal waiting for them. Maglor wondered how Lothwen had been able to prepare all this in such a short while, but remembering she had once been head cook of Mithlond, he knew she had organised far larger dinners with most efficient perfection in the past.

On a large turntable plates with bites of smoked fish, small bowls with steamed vegetables and spicy sauces, baskets with slices of roasted bread, as well as plates with fillets of grilled fish and cockles, kept warm by flat, hot stones beneath, were offered. Along with the food Lothwen had chosen two white wines that complemented the meal; one very light and fruity, the other one a bit more tart and heady.

The meal was delicious and crowned by a dessert of iced lemon cream, beautifully arranged with slices of orange and leaves of Melissa; Lothwen blushing at receiving a flood of compliments. Nerdanel and Lothwen retired to the adjoining terrace later on; enjoying the warm, flowery night breeze and chatting cheerfully, while Anfael left for the stables again to make certain the horses felt comfortable in their new surroundings. Dólvaen, Círdan and Maglor went back to the library to finally have a look at the construction plans of the mansion.

  


~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (S) Anfael - Generous Gift
> 
> (S) Dólvaen - Clever Head
> 
> (S) Lothwen - Flower Maiden


	8. Of Stable Masters and Maidservants

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  


Sitting in one of the pavilions, Maglor played his harp while absentmindedly observing the young she-elf who sat on a pile of soft cushions as his feet; the young child in her arms cooing gleefully while tugging at strands of his mother’s silvery hair. Much had changed in their life since they came to live on Tol Eressëa five decades ago…

  


~ ~ ~

  


…The first night at the new mansion, Maglor had not been able to find sleep. It was no uneasy restlessness that kept him awake, quite the contrary. The warm excitement he had felt all of the evening made his entire being hum with joy, awakening the urge to revel in the beautiful surroundings again and again. His lover instead had drifted into a peaceful reverie after they had joined in an ecstatic lovemaking; the silvery moonlight casting a soft glow on the elder elf’s relaxed features, making Círdan seem utterly youthful in his sleep.

It felt good to see him thus; the worries he had caused his lover, the long preparations for the departure from Mithlond, the journey and the stressful morning at the docks after their arrival at Avallónë…all this had not allowed his Círdan to find rest for weeks. There was still much work ahead of them, they would return to Avallónë in the morning as Círdan was needed there to organise everything. Dólvaen would come with them, having worked hand in hand with Círdan for millennia; he knew where his support was needed without being asked.

Nerdanel had chosen to remain with Lothwen, the two ladies got along pleasantly and his mother preferred exploring the peaceful little haven to the bustling streets of Avallónë. Nerdanel would stay for a while before returning home to her father’s house and Maglor looked forward to having her around after missing her for ages. His mother had an eye for art and would certainly have her part in adorning the house; being known for the beautiful sculptures she crafted. Nerdanel was already planning more than one new statue.

  


*~*~*

  


Careful not to wake his lover, Maglor peeled himself out of Círdan’s embrace and left the bed, donning the light house robe he had carelessly discarded on the floor during their heated encounter. Stepping onto the balcony, he breathed in deeply; letting his gaze wander over the gardens and the sea, then toward the sky. The sound of light footfalls on the gravelled path beneath drew the singer’s attention; searching for the source of the sound, he saw Anfael’s slender shape returning from one of the pavilions.

Following the movement of the young lad, Maglor saw that Anfael was seemingly not on his way back to the house. The stables…the young elf always felt drawn there. Maglor had not yet asked Círdan what was wrong with the young stable hand; he had planned to do so this evening, but in his excitement he had completely forgotten. The singer was still worried; therefore he quickly donned proper garments in the dressing chamber and silently crept out the sleeping chamber to search for Anfael and talk to the lad.

As he had thought, Maglor found the young elf in the box of his stallion, sitting on a bale of straw; his legs pulled up against his chest, a curtain of dark hair hiding his features. Anfael jumped slightly when Maglor addressed him; having been deeply lost in thought, he quickly wiped his eyes to hide his tears from the singer.

“My Lord, what are you doing here at night?” Anfael stuttered surprised, trying not to meet Maglor’s gaze.

“I could ask thee the same,” Maglor replied, eying the young elf thoughtfully. “I saw thee walk from the gardens to the stables. I must say, thou dost worry me.”

“I am sorry; it was not my intention to burden you. You need not worry because of me, my Lord,” Anfael murmured, feeling uncomfortable under the Noldo's penetrating gaze. “I am fine…I only need to settle after the journey and become accustomed to my new surroundings. Nothing to worry about…really!”

“Why is it that I do not believe thee? Anfael, thou hast grown so sad since we arrived at Tol Eressëa,” Maglor questioned, trying to sound reassuring. “I know thou wert crying when I came in, and it was not for the first time. At the quays the night we arrived at Avallónë and the night before we left Mithlond.”

“‘Tis nothing, my Lord, do not concern yourself. I can take care of myself,” Anfael murmured. Coming to his feet, he walked over to his stallion and started to stroke the beast’s soft mane.

Maglor realised questioning the lad would lead nowhere. He could not push him into talking; Anfael needed to take heart and tell what ailed him. Nevertheless, Maglor decided against returning to the house yet; something in the eyes of the young elf told him Anfael would confide in him if he would give him a few moments to calm down. Picking up a brush, Maglor walked over to Tálagor’s box and started to groom the stallion’s long mane; gently scratching behind the beast’s ears now and then.

It did not take long until Anfael followed Maglor tentatively, settling on a bale of straw in Tálagor’s box with a small sigh; eying Maglor thoughtfully for long moments.

“I…I feel a bit lost. Most elves who sailed joined their families here on Tol Eressëa or in Valinor…they have a place to go,” Anfael murmured sadly. “I have no place to go…it makes me feel somewhat hollow inside…it hurts.”

“Anfael, dost thou not have a family here or in Valinor?” Maglor asked, concerned. “Loved ones who are waiting for thee to join them?”

“Those who would be glad to take me in, my parents and my grandparents from my father’s side…they still walk the Halls of Waiting,” Anfael murmured in an unsteady voice, shivering slightly. “The rest of my family…they do not wish to have me around, they did not even come to greet me…nor did they send word.”

“Did they know thou wert coming?” Maglor asked carefully. “Maybe they did not reach Avallónë in time.”

“They _did_ know, Dólvaen sent word to them in time,” Anfael glared at Maglor; before his gaze grew sad again and he needed to force back renewed tears. “I should have known they would react thus, they do not want me around…they hate me.”

“Hate thee?” Maglor gasped shocked, instinctively laying his arm around the lad’s shoulders to soothe him. “Why should someone hate thee?”

“My mother’s parents and her brother, I think they wish I did not even exist. The families of my mother and father have always been at odds with one another; my mother’s family did not give their consent for the marriage,” Anfael murmured haltingly. “Her father went so far to say she was no longer his daughter.”

“Why would he do that?” The singer asked surprised, rubbing soothing circles on the young elf’s back. “Even if he did not agree with thy mother’s choice, there would certainly have been a way to settle the problems.”

“My mother hailed from a noble house. Even though they had lost influence over the ages, her father was a very proud man. My father was of the Wandering Folk; simple people, but kind and open-hearted…I never met my father’s parents, but he told me much of them,” Anfael explained slowly; not able to hold back renewed tears. “My mother and father loved each other deeply; when my grandfather refused to give his blessing for the marriage, she followed her heart and joined the Wandering Folk. I miss my parents…'tis so long since I lost them, I can barely remember them…I was but a child when they perished.”

“I am sorry thou didst lose thy parents, I truly wish they will be reborn soon,” Maglor replied sympathetically. “What happened to them?”

Silently Maglor chastised himself for his last question; certainly it would not help the lad at all to talk over his parent’s death. Anfael’s face had paled at the question, new tears gathered in his eyes and he nervously chewed at his lower lip. The singer was just about to apologize for his thoughtless question, when Anfael spoke up again with in a shaken voice.

“Father sent me and mother to Mithlond shortly before the war, he thought it safer. My mother beseeched him to stay with us, but as the Wandering Folk often volunteer to guard travellers, he left again;” Anfael explained sadly while more tears streamed down his cheeks. “He never returned…they were attacked by a bloody bunch of orcs and he was slain. My mother faded from grief shortly after; her love for me was not strong enough to keep her alive.”

“It grieves me to hear thou hadst to face all this at such a young age,” Maglor responded calmly; pulling the distraught elf in a soothing embrace. “Who took care of thee in Mithlond? Someone must have fostered thee when thou wert still young.”

“Dólvaen and Lothwen took me in; their children had both long grown up. Their daughter often looked after me, told me stories or sang for me, and their son showed me how to use a bow and later also a sword,” Anfael explained with a small smile. “But I always loved horses most. When I grew older, I was allowed to help in the stables and later Lord Círdan employed me as a stable hand. The horses, they are my friends; my life…they simply accept me the way I am, no matter where I hail from.”

Anfael’s features lit up as soon as he talked of his beloved horses, yet underneath lay a sadness in the elf’s young features that touched Maglor deeply. For the singer it was difficult to imagine how the grandparents of the lad could be so cold-hearted as to turn their young grandson away without having ever met him. Yet being raised into nobility himself, Maglor knew that behind the flawless mask it had always been common to arrange marriages in order to tie high houses together; the young nobles often growing up with the belief only those of equal station would be a worthy match.

Such thoughts had always sickened Maglor. His own mother, even though her father was one of the most renowned artisans of Valinor, did not hail from nobility; his father as ever stubbornly refusing to heed the unspoken laws when choosing his wife. For Maglor, it had always been clear that if he would ever bind himself, he would follow his heart; knowing his father would never force him into a marriage he did not wish. He had thought over the passing ages such a narrow-minded attitude would at least have changed in Middle-earth, yet Anfael’s case told him that it seemingly still existed.

“My Lord,” Anfael’s tentative voice drew the singer from his thoughts. “Bother yourself not with me, I will get along. I know you have faced seemingly endless pain and grief; I do not wish to add to it. My problems…they are nothing compared to what you have endured.”

“Nay, Anfael…what I endured, I brought upon myself. Yet thou, thou didst do nothing to merit the hurt they inflict upon thee!” Maglor exclaimed, taken aback by the lad’s grave words despite his seemingly young age. “Anfael, how old art thou?”

“I turned eighty-seven last summer, my Lord. I am old enough to take care of myself,” the young elf responded, defiance flaring up in his eyes. “I saved enough money to stay in an inn until I find new employment and a place to stay. Many people I know from Mithlond live here, I am sure they would take me in if need be; and they offered to keep their ears open if someone is in need of a stable hand.”

“I know someone who seeketh to employ a new stable master,” Maglor stated genuinely; smiling at the lad’s puzzled expression. “Now that I have such a wonderful house with such a spacious stable, I very much intend to have more horses as well; thus I need a stable master and stable hands.”

Anfael’s features lit up at first, but then a deep frown replaced the joyful expression and the lad looked at Maglor with renewed defiance. The singer knew this look only too well; he himself had stared like this at Círdan countless times when his lover had said, done or offered something he had mistaken for pity. The defiance in the young elf’s eyes changed into a glare and he suddenly jumped to his feet, intending to escape, yet Maglor caught him by his arm and kept him from running.

“I do not need your pity,” Anfael hissed; trying to break free. “I do not need your help to get along, I am no child! Let me go, I am none of your business!”

“Stop fidgeting and listen to me, Anfael,” Maglor commanded, pulling the lad to sit on the bale of hay again. “Thinkest thou truly I offer thee this out of mere charity?”

Anfael did not answer; continuing to glare defiantly at the singer.

“Thou art mistaken. I very much dislike being pitied myself, thus I would never make the offer solely for such reasons,” Maglor explained, his voice softening again. “I suggested it because I am certain thou art very much suited for the position. I have seen thee with the horses…the way thou carest for them, I would not see my horses under any lesser hands.”

“Are you serious, my Lord? But the stable _master_ ,” Anfael exclaimed in surprise, staring at Maglor wide-eyed. “I was a mere stable hand in Mithlond, as a stable master I also would have to organize everything concerning the horses…and give the stable hands orders.”

“But is this not exactly what thou didst before we departed Mithlond?” Maglor questioned with a smile, but did not wait for the lad to answer. “Thou alone didst organize the horses care and transport; as the other stable hands were busy with their households. I saw thee scolding and commanding far elder elves, because they did not bestow the care on the horses thou didst deem fitting…and they obeyed without question.”

“There was no-one else there to take care of those things. The stable master and most of the older stable hands had already sailed ahead, the others were busy,” Anfael commented; blushing slightly, as he cast the singer a sheepish look and a weak smile. “Was it not my responsibility then to arrange for everything? I would never see the horses neglected because everyone else is lacking time to properly care for them.”

“See? This is exactly why I think thou wouldst be the best choice for this position. Thou art fiercely loyal to thy beloved horses and thinkest of them before thou thinkest of thyself,” Maglor grinned, as Anfael blushed an even deeper shade of red. “Didst thou like to be in charge of all those responsibilities? If thou dost feel more comfortable as a stable hand, I would respect thy wish. I need a reliable stable hand as well and thou wouldst be most welcome.”

“Well, yes…it felt good to be in charge. I often argued with the stable master when I thought something would be better for the horses, but he never listened to me. I hated it and I am sure the horses did as well,” Anfael muttered, before a satisfied grin spread over his youthful face. “I changed all the things we had disagreed about as soon as he sailed. I would very much like to be your stable master, my Lord…and I think I should apologize for my previous outburst, it was not justified.”

“No offence taken, Anfael. Thou art a Noldo, and we are stubborn and proud,” Maglor grinned, before casting the younger elf another penetrating glance. “So it is settled, but I shall set certain conditions.”

“And what would they be, my Lord?” Anfael asked tentatively, yet meeting the singer’s gaze unwaveringly.

“Thou wilt be equipped with everything thou needest for thy work, including a small office; I am certain Dólvaen can see to this. Thou wilt advise myself and Círdan when it comes to employing the new stable hands who will be working under thy command, as well as when we decide to purchase new horses.” Maglor stated dryly, fighting to suppress a grin as he observed the lad’s dumbfounded expression.

“I think I can settle for this, my Lord,” Anfael confirmed with a nod.

“I was not yet finished. Thou shouldst especially heed the following terms: The stables are for the horses, elves reside in the house lest there are reasons that require their constant presence in the stables,” the singer stated determinedly. “Thou wilt be assigned quarters and as most of the rooms are not yet occupied, thou canst choose freely. But dare not to pick one of the modest servant chambers; they are not befitting thy new position. Furthermore, thou art free to have the quarters furnished to thy liking; thou wilt receive proper payment and have a suitable number of days off.”

“I suppose I will grow into it,” Anfael replied meekly. “I hope you expect not that I will dress formally when I am in my office, this would be a term I could hardly settle for.”

“No, of course not, Anfael. I merely ask thee to look presentable when we meet traders, but I do not expect thee to wear something overly formal,” Maglor grinned at the almost horrified expression on the lad’s features. “I suppose Dólvaen will be more than glad to advise thee in all the office matters until thou art familiar with them, and Círdan and I will also not chide thee for questions or if thou feelest insecure. If thou decidest the position does not suite thee after a reasonable time, or wishest to leave for any other reason…we will not think less of thee because of it or stand in thy way.”

“Thou art most kind, my Lord; I thank you for the trust you have in me,” the young elf smiled shyly. “I promise I will not fail you or Lord Círdan.”

“Oh lad, I think there is nothing thou couldst do to disappoint us. Thou art still young, but thou hast a quick wit and wilt certainly grow into all this in no time,” Maglor smiled; gently laying his arm around the younger elf’s shoulders in a friendly gesture. “Come, let us go back to the house and find some rest, it has grown late. We will depart early on the morrow and have much work ahead.”

  


*~*~*

  


Undressing silently, Maglor slid back beneath the bedcovers and was immediately enveloped in his lover’s embrace. Blinking sleepily, Círdan caught the singer’s lips in a tender kiss that quickly deepened to a sensual duel of tongues. Questioning hands joined in as well, sliding across long limbs, muscled chests and taunt behinds, teasing each patch of silken skin they encountered. Breathless, Círdan finally leaned back and gazed at his lover with passion clouded eyes.

“Where hast thou been, love? Thou smellest of horse…” he started, but moaned in delight when Maglor’s hand slid between his legs. Long fingers wrapped around his engorged member, stroking it slowly until he writhed and moaned, arching into the touch.

“So thou dost not want me when I smell of horse, ancient one?” The singer teased, stopping his blissful ministrations all of a sudden, earning him a disapproving groan from his lover.

In one smooth motion Círdan toppled them over, straddling his lover. “Oh, I want thee,” he purred while rubbing his groin against Maglor’s erection, making his lover moan throatily. “It is very arousing when thou smellest so…wild. It maketh me imagine thee ravishing me all over…feral and untamed.”

“Feral and untamed, this thou canst gladly have…” Maglor attempted to reply, but coherent speech failed him when Círdan slid further down and he was suddenly enveloped by the blissful, wet heat of his lover’s mouth. His entire body hummed with need as Círdan brought him to the edge again and again, yet his lover did not grant him release.

“It also maketh me imagine…” Círdan purred, licking away droplet of precum that leaked from the singer’s straining erection, “…how thou wouldst look on thy hands and knees, my wild one…proud and stubborn, yet so very responsive to my touch.”

Pulling Círdan up again, Maglor kissed him deeply; savouring the taste of his own musky essence on his lovers tongue. It aroused him even more, his groin was throbbing painfully and he bucked up his hips to gain more friction; making both of them moan with desperate need. Gripping Círdan’s taunt buttocks, Maglor drew his lover closer and rubbed his hard member against its equally aroused counterpart, all the while suppressing his need to come.

“Maglor…need more…need to feel thee,” Círdan moaned almost desperately, his voice raw with longing, while his body shuddered in anticipation.

“Then feel me” the singer murmured against his lover’s kiss bruised lips. “Take thyself. Thou didst want to…ride, so ride me and show me how much thou needest me, love.”

Gazing into his lover’s hooded eyes, Maglor gripped Círdan’s hips and steadied him, while the elder elf positioned himself above his straining erection and slowly impaled himself. A low hiss escaped Círdan’s lips when Maglor’s hard member breached his unprepared opening; his face slightly contorting in pain. Yet when the singer pushed up and all the way in, hitting his lover’s secret spot; Círdan moaned in utter bliss as waves of pleasure mingled with the burning sensation.

All rational thoughts drained from their minds and they let go, becoming lost in spirals of rapture that rapidly lifted them to their peak. Maglor pulled Círdan down and into a tight embrace; his lover’s erection caught between their bellies, while the singer drove his hips upwards more forcefully; hitting the secret bundle of nerves within his lover’s passage with every hard thrust until they finally tumbled over the edge together. They held each other tightly, riding out the aftermath of their climax until the last wave ebbed and they curled up in each others arms tired and sated.

  


*~*

  


“So what drove thee to the stables in the middle of the night?” Círdan murmured sleepily, resting his head on Maglor’s chest. “I hope thou didst not try to run from me again.”

“Nay my ancient one, I will never run from thee again, I love thee. But I know how much I hurt thee, forgive me,” Maglor whispered against his lovers silvery hair. “I saw Anfael sneaking toward the stables when I was on the balcony. The odd behaviour…the sadness of the lad worried me, I had wanted to talk to thee about it, but we never had the chance. I followed him to the stable to talk to him.”

“Ay, I had wanted to speak to thee about this as well,” Círdan murmured. “He hath his own sad past and things to cope with. Did he tell thee about it?”

“He told me of his parents and of his mother’s family…who seem to loathe him,” Maglor acknowledged, unable to suppress his anger. “I do not understand how they can act so cruelly and turn him away.”

“I cannot understand either. After Anfael’s parents died, I asked a friend of mine who sailed to seek out the lad’s family and tell them what happened, assuming they would like to take in the boy and raise him in Aman,” Círdan explained with a grim expression. “They reacted coldly and told my friend the child was none of their business and they did not care what became of him. As Lothwen already looked after the child, I knew he would have a loving home with them and it would not feel too awkward for the boy, as Dólvaen is a Noldo.”

“How didst thou come to know the reaction of Anfael’s grandparents?” Maglor questioned curiously. He had heard that his lover must have had means to communicate with Valinor over all the ages, as he was said to have known information that could only have come directly from Aman.

“The Palantir in the tower of Elostirion was aligned to look westwards to the Tower of Avallonë, where the Master-stone is kept. I was the warden of this palantir from the time Elendil placed it into the tower. It was said by men that this palantir was the only one that could not be used to communicate with other stones…only to see, but this is a myth,” Círdan explained with a shake of his head. “For men, it was a gift to be allowed glimpses of the Undying Lands, yet the Valar did not allow them to communicate with Aman via the palantir. For elves this _was_ possible, yet we never told the mortals.”

“Ah, I see. I already wondered if thou didst possibly bother one of the Maia dwelling in the sea or even Ulmo himself with this matter,” Maglor chuckled, kissing his lover’s brow.

“Oh, I talked to them at times, receiving information of things to come. Yet this was a private matter, so no reason to involve them,” Círdan grinned before growing serious again. “I told Anfael of this when he reached his majority. I had no right to keep this from him, even though it grieved me to give him such bad news.”

“He did not take it well, I am sure,” Maglor murmured.

“Nay, of course not. He refused to believe it, clinging to his hope they would accept him as they were his only living family. When Dólvaen sailed, he gave him a letter for his grandparents,” Círdan sighed frustrated. “Every word Anfael had written came from his heart and he set so much hope in it. The palantir had been sent so Valinor with Elrond and Galadriel, so the only thing he could do was to wait until we sailed. Thou canst certainly imagine how hurt he felt when he learned they had turned him down again.”

“He is _still_ hurting, he was crying when I found him in the stable,” Maglor muttered angrily. “‘Tis not fair, even I…a kinslayer, was greeted by my mother while Anfael who certainly hath never done any harm cries himself to sleep.”

“He feels lost; Mithlond was the only home he ever knew,” Círdan answered gravely. “I had already wished to address this matter earlier; I think it might be good to offer him employment in our new household. He is fiercely loyal and always fulfills his duties with utmost reliability.”

“Thou needest not convince me of this, ancient one,” Maglor smiled. “I saw his worth in Mithlond, and thus made him our new stable master. He will need some help with the administrative duties in the beginning, but I am sure he will learn them quickly.”

“Oh, then thou art one step ahead of me, this was exactly what I was about to suggest,” Círdan nodded against the singer’s chest, trying to stifle a yawn. “He is a cunning young elf; I thought it was about time to delegate him more responsibilities than those of a mere stable hand.”

  


~ ~ ~

  


…The delighted squeal of the elfling and the gentle laughter of the young one’s mother drew Maglor from his musings. Indeed Anfael had never failed them, just as he had promised the night in the stable; quickly adjusting to his new duties. The slender lad had grown into a proud and strong Noldo in the fifty years that had passed; a close, loyal friend to both Maglor and Círdan, and a loving husband and father to his wife and their little son…yet he never neglected his duty to the horses.

Belegurwen, the same young maiden who had looked after the children at Mithlond, had joined their household as a maidservant a month after their arrival. Just as Anfael, her parents still walked the Halls of Waiting but she had not felt ready to join her close kin in Valinor yet. Being almost the same age, Anfael and Belegurwen had quickly become friends, even though they had barely noticed each other at Mithlond. Out of this friendship, a tentative affection and finally a deep love had slowly blossomed.

The young couple had married seven years before; and only two years later their little son had been born. Belegurwen named the boy Alagion, as the child seemed to have inherited all of his father’s boisterousness as well as Anfael’s dark hair…yet the child’s eyes were the same light-blue as those of his mother. They marriage ceremony had been in the beautiful gardens of the mansion and the celebration afterwards the first big feast that had been held in the feasting hall; many people from Mithlond and also of the Wandering Folk gathered to make merry with the young couple.

To Anfael’s utter surprise, the brother of his mother sent his good wishes for the marriage and a most generous present, as well as his congratulations and more presents after little Alagion had been born. Anfael’s grandparents still held themselves aloof, but Maglor knew how much it meant for his friend that his uncle reached out to him and tried to make amends.

  


~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (S) Anfael - Generous Gift
> 
> (S) Tálagor - Fast Foot
> 
> (S) Dólvaen - Clever Head
> 
> (S) Lothwen - Flower Maiden
> 
> (S) Belegurwen - Great-hearted Maiden
> 
> (S) Alagion - Rushing/Impetuous Son or Son of Rushing/Impetuous [in this case both would be fitting]


	9. Threads in Eru’s Design

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  


Putting his quill aside, Maglor leaned back in his chair and took some sips of his wine, skimming over the lines he had just written while the ink dried. Neatly rolling the paper, he melted sealing wax over a candle, sealed the scroll and pressed his official signet onto it before laying it onto a pile of other scrolls. The singer had spent most of the afternoon answering correspondence from Valinor; a messenger from Avallónë would collect the scrolls in the morning and travel to the mainland to deliver them directly to their recipients or pass them to other messengers to distribute.

Coming to his feet, Maglor walked over to the terrace door of his office and stepped out to the colonnade, letting his gaze wander across the garden that was dipped in the warm, golden glow of the afternoon sun. He had long pondered over the letter he had just written, the answer to an invitation he had received weeks ago…a feast to be held in the palace of Tirion in another month’s time and a request for him to perform there. Since his arrival at Tol Eressëa, he had received dozens of such invitations, yet he had declined all of them; not feeling ready to return to the place he had once called his home.

He had not declined in this instance; feeling it was time he came forth from the protective shell of his safe little haven and faced his inner demons…he would not be alone; Círdan would accompany him. It had taken decades, but Maglor had found inner peace and could forgive himself for his deeds; the latter being the hardest to achieve as it was difficult for him to cope with the guilt he still felt within his heart. The peace was still fragile; Maglor felt content around his lover, mother and those of his household, had even made some friends amongst the people of Tol Eressëa, yet the thought of returning to Tirion to meet his kin and those who had once looked up to him as a prince made Maglor feel uncomfortable.

When the news of his return from exile had spread, letters upon letters had been brought by messengers; mostly from his close kin in the form of uncles and cousins, but also from those he had once called friends; or nobles and warriors who had served his household. The sheer number of letters had overwhelmed the singer; long had he struggled with himself whether to open them or not, unsure if he would be able to bear their disdain. How else _could_ they react upon hearing of his arrival? Yet when he had finally plucked up his courage and opened the scrolls, he found they were all warm greetings and welcomes…not scornful at all.

Maglor had taken his time in answering; being at a loss as what he could say to people after ages had passed since he had seen them last. He had felt tense when writing the replies, his words courteous and reserved. Yet the singer’s hand did not betray his nervousness, his script confident and flowing; with the same elegant sweep as ever before. Maglor had used his personal seal for these letters; the thought of using the official signet of the House of Fëanor seeming to him as if it was an offence after all the shameful events of the past.

With the years, Maglor’s tension when receiving word from Valinor had eased. Apart from his mother, Celebrimbor regularly sent word as well; and Maglor was glad to hear things had worked out well for his nephew. Nerdanel had already told the singer upon his arrival that Celebrimbor, not having had any part in the events of the Oath, had not walked within Mandos’ Halls overlong. The Valar had not held the deception of Sauron in the guise of Annatar against Celebrimbor. Thus, being freed of guilt, he had been re-embodied only three centuries after his death.

Nerdanel’s father Mahtan had welcomed his great-grandson warmly, most intrigued by what he had heard of his skill in crafts, and the two had quickly grown close. Only a few short years after his rebirth, Celebrimbor had become renowned as one of the greatest artisans of Valinor; and joined by many of his former followers, he re-founded the Gwaith-i-Mirdain and their business flourished. Maglor’s nephew had sent many gifts over the years; masterpieces, elaborately crafted by his own hand…yet the most precious gift of all had been a pair of rings Celebrimbor had made for him and Círdan.

  


*~*

  


The singer had also established frequent contact with his uncle Fingolfin, his cousins Fingon and Finrod, and a few friends; the courteous reserve of their exchanges soon replaced by friendly and unconstrained conversation. Yet whenever they asked him to visit them in Tirion, Maglor had always politely declined; also delaying their requests to visit him on Tol Eressëa. They respected his self-imposed ‘unsociability’, as Fingon tended to call it; and still sent him invitations for every feast they held; even though not expecting Maglor to accept.

Well, most of them had respected his wish…save one. The thought made Maglor smile; even though this same elf had regularly caused him the most wicked, guilt-ridden nightmares up until two decades ago. Elrond, the one whom he had fostered as a child…after violently ripping him and his twin brother out of their peaceful home; destroying and killing all the children had loved in an attempt to reclaim a Silmaril. He had spared the boys’ lives and taken them in out of guilt and shame at what he had done; though he had afterward grown fond of them and loved them as if they were his own sons.

Despite the violent start, the twin boys overcame their fear and after tentatively accepting his care, had soon returned his love. In those years, Maglor had felt a strange sense of peace; the affection of the boys soothing his grief even though he was certain their fondness would change to loathing when they grew old enough to comprehend the full extent of what had been done to them. It did not; Elrond and Elros never spoke of the events they doubtlessly remembered. Yet when the singer made the decision to send the twins to Balar when they were close to adulthood to join the High King Gil-galad’s household, Maglor was certain they would learn of his deeds and look upon him with disgust.

Maglor had never seen them again after their departure; even though they wrote him letters, not expressing any malice toward him at all. When the War of Wrath wrecked the land, the letters grew less frequent; but Maglor was grateful to occasionally receive news that they fared well and had survived the numerous battles unharmed. Yet the last message he received shortly after the end of the war had grieved him deeply; it had been written by Elros, telling Maglor he had chosen mortality. Not even the news that Elrond, in turn, had chosen to belong to the Firstborn had soothed the depth of Maglor’s pain.

When a letter from Elrond had arrived, along with the other greetings upon his return from exile, Maglor felt both intense joy and guilt at the same time; stirring him more than any other letter he had received. Elrond’s words had been warm and welcoming, yet this had not soothed Maglor’s inner tumult, neither had Círdan’s comforting words; his replies to his lover had when questioned had been short and aloof. The singer could not believe Elrond did _not_ loathe him; even Círdan, who had been a friend of Elrond for ages, could not convince his lover otherwise. Maglor had been certain he would never hear word of Elrond again; yet shortly afterward, another letter from the Peredhel arrived and many more followed over the years.

Despite the relaxed nature of the correspondence with his close kin, his tension when writing to Elrond had remained; Elrond was a constant reminder of the shameful deeds he had committed in following the Oath. On one hand, Maglor had been grateful for every letter the Peredhel sent; but on the other, they were a source of emotional torment and he wished Elrond would simply break the contact. Like many others, Elrond wished to meet Maglor; but as he had done with all the other invitations, the singer politely declined. Yet Elrond was not easily dissuaded; after being rejected for decades, he had simply taken matters into his own hands.

A genuine smile spread over the singer’s features and he shook his head, laughing. Elrond had grown up amongst so much Fëanorian stubbornness he had not only adopted some of it, but had also leaned how to use it to advantage. When his letters did not prove fruitful, the stubborn Peredhel simply travelled to Tol Eressëa and sent a messenger to herald his visit only few minutes ahead his own arrival at the mansion. There had been no way for Maglor to avoid their meeting, at least none his pride did not forbid him to take; and so he could do naught but welcome his former foster son.

The singer had suspected that Círdan maybe had a hand in Elrond’s arrival as well, but one glance at his lover had told him Círdan was just as surprised as he was. The elder elf had never pushed him in these matters, letting him take the time he needed; only reassuring him. Maglor had been more than glad to have Círdan at his side when Elrond arrived; yet after a rather stiff and formal greeting, the atmosphere relaxed on its own and things worked out well. Acceptance that he had been forgiven by someone he had hurt did not come easy for Maglor; as he himself had not yet reached the point where he could forgive himself, but the persistent Peredhel made it quite clear he did not hold a grudge against his former foster father.

Elrond had remained on Tol Eressëa for a month; and they had spent most of the time talking. There was not much Maglor could tell him about the life he had lived after his contact with Elrond had been broken; as he had become a lone, desperate wanderer. Elrond’s life had been full of both joy and grief and Maglor could not deny he was very proud of what his foster son had achieved over the ages. The singer felt as if every day the burden on his heart was lifted a bit more; his guilt weighing less heavily. When the day of their parting had finally come, they parted as friends and Elrond’s promise to visit again was accepted with a smile from the singer, rather than rejection.

  


*~*

  


Walking along the gravelled paths of the gardens, Maglor watched how the soft golden glow of the afternoon sun slowly changed; dipping the entire Bay of Eldamar in a deep orange. It was shortly before sundown as the singer walked over to his favourite spot; a pavilion close to the edge of the rock plateau that allowed a perfect view of the sea and the Pelóri Mountains to the west. He would never tire of the sight when the ridges of the mountain range seemed to be crowned by flames at sunset; each time it appeared just as magical and glorious as upon the evening of he had first arrived at Tol Eressëa.

Sipping the wine he had brought, Maglor watched mesmerised as the orange glow slowly drew back toward the mainland; darkness descending over the bay, while all the light seemed to gather along the mountain ridge in a fiery spectacle. Only when the last flame of light over the mountains had faded and Ithil’s soft beams dipped his surroundings in a silvery glow, did Maglor step into the pavilion with a content smile. Seating himself comfortably on the soft pillows covering the stone bench, the singer lit an oil lamp and placed it onto the balustrade beside him before he turned his attention to the scroll had brought along.

It was a letter from his mother a messenger had brought in the late afternoon. Word from her was always most precious to him, thus he had laid the letter aside to read it in the quiet moments after sundown when his heart was always filled with a special sense of peace; a feeling he could neither explain nor truly comprehend. Carefully breaking the seal, he unrolled the parchment and leaned back against the balustrade. He took another sip of his wine while scanning the lines his mother had written.

The wineglass shattered on the stone floor unnoticed as he stared at the letter wide-eyed. Several long moments passed before the singer was able to halfway regain his composure as his mother’s words slowly sank into his mind. Dumbfounded, he read the first few sentences again…and again; a mix of emotions playing across his features before he suddenly jumped to his feet and took off toward the house. The singer almost knocked over a maidservant when turning a corner, and the young maiden jumped aside with a surprised shriek; yet Maglor was oblivious of her presence, hurrying along the hallway to the library.

Both Círdan and Dólvaen rose to their feet when the doors of the library flew open and Maglor burst into the room; his breath hitching as he stared at them, bewildered. Círdan was at his lover’s side in an instant; gazing at the singer worriedly while trying to figure out what could have upset him so.

“Maglor, look at me,” Círdan spoke, gently squeezing his lover’s shaking hand. “Tell me what happened…is all well?”

“Aye, all is well,” Maglor murmured absentmindedly. “Amras…he will be reborn. My youngest brother will be reborn soon!”

Dólvaen silently made to leave, casting Maglor a bright smile before he closed the doors; granting the two lovers their privacy in such an emotional moment. There was no need for words…Círdan knew Maglor had long yearned for the day he would be reunited with at least _one_ of his brethren, the news that his wish would finally come true was simply too overwhelming to comprehend at once. Drawing his lover into a firm embrace, Círdan simply held his shivering form while Maglor buried his face in the elder elf’s hair; crying tears of joy and relief.

They stood like this for long, until Círdan finally walked Maglor over to a settee and gently guided him to sit.

“I only read the first lines,” Maglor murmured, while handing Círdan the letter he had clutched in his hand all along. “It is from my mother. Read it to me, please? I cannot concentrate at the moment, but I need to know what else she wrote.”

Círdan could tell Nerdanel had been as overwhelmed by the news as Maglor; the usually neat and delicate writing of the lady was unsteady and blurred upon the page. He skimmed over the lines once before he began to read aloud, feeling his lover’s grip on his hand tighten with every sentence. Amras was to be released from the Halls of Waiting in approximately two months time; and of course Nerdanel was overjoyed, as was to be expected. She asked Maglor to be with her when they welcomed his brother. She then planned to take Amras with her to her father’s house and hoped the singer would stay with them for a while.

Yet Nerdanel was also afraid her youngest son would face the same difficulties in settling into his new life as Maglor, and also worried about how Amras would cope with being bereft of his twin, as there was no indication that Amrod would also be reborn in the near future. Maglor was especially worried about this last point; pondering upon it long after Círdan had stopped reading. The singer’s head was reeling, images from the past flooded his mind and his thoughts drifted back to a long-ago time, while his lover held him and gave him silent support.

Ambarussa had never been separated from one another. The bond between his twin brothers had been a strong one lifelong; and they had always acted in unison. The older they grew, the clearer it became that the relationship between Ambarussa was not equal; Amrod definitively the more dominant of the twins and Amras allowing his brother to order him about without ever questioning or rebelling. While they had clung to each other as youngsters, when they were grown their relationship had changed. Amrod often went his own way and grew closer to his father with the years; while Amras had become completely fixed on his elder twin and never acted as an individual. He shared all his twin’s interests; yet Amras often seemed weary of their shared activities, finding no pleasure in what brought his twin such delight.

The day they had sworn the dreadful oath, Amras had hesitated; Maglor had seen the doubt in his youngest brother’s eyes, yet one glance from Amrod had been enough to break Amras’ resistance. The singer was certain it had not been the loyalty to their father which had driven Amras to speak the words and seal his doom…it had been the loyalty to his twin. In the years following the oath, Amras never stated any opinion or expressed concerns when the brethren gathered to make plans and decisions. The grave expression on the younger twin’s face often clearly showed his disapproval; yet Amras would search his twin’s eyes for long moments before silently nodding his agreement.

Tears gathered in Maglor’s eyes and Círdan gently guided his lover’s head to rest upon his shoulder as another memory washed over the singer; one that had haunted him for ages…Amras’ death. Maglor had been the one who had found the younger twin after the bloodbath they had caused at the Havens of Sirion; his body lying smashed and broken on the ground in a pool of his own blood. Amras had still been alive, struggling for breath and coughing up blood; a horrible rasping sound that had shaken Maglor to the bone. He had knelt beside his youngest brother, holding the twitching body in his arms to ease his torment; brushing away blood-soaked strands of hair and gently caressing his brother’s cheeks while murmuring soothing words.

Tremors shook his brother’s body as his shaking hand clutched at the singer desperately; Amras’ blurred silver-grey eyes staring at Maglor in utter shock as he tried to speak. Maglor had tried to soothe Amras, yet the younger twin was not to be calmed; the words he finally managed to force out a mere whisper, full of pain and despair. _‘Can I…go home now…Makalaurë? I only…wish to go…home…’_ The singer had gently kissed his brother’s brow then, holding him tightly; reassuring Amras that all would be well and he would soon be home…until finally the tremors subsided and the body in his arms fell limp.

The expression on his youngest brother’s pale face had been peaceful when he perished. His soul departed, following Mandos’ call; yet the soft smile on Amras’ features remained. The singer’s words had given his brother peace; had eased his torment and despair, yet even while speaking them Maglor could not tell if they were lies or if his brother would truly be granted to find ease. They had been doomed; had committed terrible deeds attempting to fulfill the Oath they had sworn. Yet Maglor had hoped the Valar would be merciful in their punishment of his youngest brother, who had only followed out of loyalty to his twin.

Maglor knew Amras would feel lost without his twin; yet the singer could not believe the Valar had made their decision in order to meet out another punishment. Maybe it was a gift…even though it would not appear as such to Amras in the beginning. His brother was granted the opportunity to finally grow into an individual; to develop his own unique personality and a self-confidence that would set him apart from his twin when Amrod was re-born one day. They would be equals; just as it should have been all those ages ago, sharing the close bond of twins that would certainly never cease; yet each also being strong individuals in their own right.

  


*~*

  


It took Maglor long hours before he regained his composure to the extent he felt ready to answer his mother’s letter. Círdan had held him all the while; reassuring and comforting him with his mere presence, yet Maglor decided upon answering his mother’s letter alone, and finally retreated to his own private study. Picking up his quill and a piece of parchment, Maglor began to write; his thoughts calm and composed now that his mind had stopped reeling and his inner turmoil had ceased.

Maglor would try his best to help his brother settle into his new life; supporting him, yet giving him space to grow and find his own way. It would be hard for his mother to let go after all the grief she had suffered. Amras had always been closest to her of all her children and the singer worried she might unwittingly restrain his younger brother when he finally spread his wings to fly; trying to keep him as close to her as possible. Yet it would not help Amras’ self-confidence if she treated him like a nestling, as she had always done before.

The news of Amras’ expected rebirth was most likely not widespread as yet, but it would not take long until it would be known throughout Valinor; the folk there probably receiving it with mixed feelings. He would do his best to spare his brother a curious crowd of spectators when the Halls of Waiting finally opened for him; counting on Celebrimbor, his uncle Fingolfin and his cousin Fingon to support him with this as well. He would have time to talk to them about this matter at the feast in Tirion; his decision to finally leave his secluded heaven to face his former life strengthened by his will to support his younger brother.

He would not abandon his home on Tol Eressëa. The singer had grown to love this place and its people just as Círdan had; and they were not planning to ever move to the mainland. Yet he would stay at his grandfather Mahtan’s house for a while, to support Amras and make sure he settled in well. Sealing the letter to his mother, Maglor called a servant who would bring the scroll to Avallónë right away; making sure it was sent with the first ship leaving for Valinor in the morning while his other correspondence could wait until it was picked up by the appointed messenger.

The singer could not describe what he felt in that moment…joy, peace, excitement…all at once. It left him light-hearted; awaking the need within him to walk beneath the stars together with his lover. All would be well…finally. After long ages of suffering, and for the first time, the singer could truly believe it.

  


*~*~*

  


On one of the Enchanted Isles the form of Uinen manifested; watching from afar as the two elves walked along the shore of Tol Eressëa beneath a star-speckled sky, stopping to share tender kisses now and then. Another form emerged from the water; far larger than that of Uinen; settling on the rocks beside the Lady of the Sea, gazing at her thoughtfully out of eyes that encompassed the ocean in all its might.

“Thou knowest, Uinen, we are not to interfere in the fate of Eru’s children as we please;” Ulmo’s deep voice echoed through the Maia’s mind. “It has always been Maglor’s fate to return to Valinor one day, yet his heart was to make the choice freely.”

“It _was_ his heart that made the choice,” Uinen responded with a smile. “I did _not_ influence his heart’s desire.”

“Yet thou didst prompt his decision by encouraging his long hidden hope,” Ulmo chastised; his voice a low rumble. “He would have found his way to Aman without thy help, thus proving himself worthy.”

“After further long years of suffering for _both_ of them,” Uinen countered; still smiling at the Vala. “Thinkest thou not ages of grief and regret were enough to prove Maglor worthy of forgiveness? And Círdan…what hath he ever done to merit such pain? He hath dutifully fulfilled the task thou hast given him ages ago, even though it left his soul weary and grieved.”

“Thou knowest there are rules, Uinen. Manwë will not be pleased to hear thou didst take liberties,” Ulmo rumbled, annoyed; the sea about the small island beginning to foam. “It was not _thy_ task to influence their fate!”

“As much as it was not the task of _thee_ and _Ossë_ to make certain Cìrdan’s ship was washed ashore during a storm…” Uinen smirked at Ulmo, “…right at the cove where Maglor had chosen to make camp, prompting their hidden bond to slip into place a whole thousand years before it was destined!”

“How…? Ossë! I should have known he would not keep this from thee,” Ulmo sighed, shaking his foam-crowned head. “I thought it necessary; as Maglor’s defiance was crumbling. I feared he might have eventually faded, despite what was fated for him.”

“Ossë can keep nothing from me when seeking comfort in my soothing embrace,” Uinen grinned. “As for the necessity of _thine_ interference…I wonder what Manwë…?”

“All has come to pass as fated…only a little sooner. We should not bother Manwë with such trifles,” Ulmo mumbled. “As he does not seem to know yet, he should better not find out at all.”

“He _knows_ already,” Manwë’s voice boomed though both Ulmo’s and Uinen’s minds. “But as I can hardly punish two elves for loving each other earlier than fated because of your insubordination, I graciously chose to let the matter rest and allowed them be happy.”

  


*~*

  


In his halls, Námo chuckled under his breath; having overheard the conversation while gazing at the beautiful new tapestry that had just been hung in one of the seemingly endless hallways of his mansion. He knew well it had been Manwë himself who had sent the mysterious message to Nerdanel…even though he would never admit it. Námo’s wife Vairë had made the tapestry millennia ago; having been graced with a glimpse of events that would come to pass one day. Together with Míriel Serindë, she had secretly woven thread after thread of the beautiful wall hanging before securely locking it into a chest until the time to hang it would finally come.

Not even Námo was allowed to spy upon the tapestries hidden in Vairë chest; even though he could foresee nearly all of what was to come within the realm of Arda, just as Manwë was able. The small glimpses of the future his spouse had often differed from what he saw…but they always turned out to be true. The events depicted on the wall hanging were _almost_ as he had seen them; yet there was a small difference…in _his_ vision, the interference of Ulmo, Uinen and Manwë had not been revealed to him.

We are _all_ threads in Eru’s Design,” Námo murmured to himself. “Not even we Valar can wholly know what fates we have to fulfil. Eru destined things unbeknownst to each of us; we will not know until they finally unfurl.”

  


 **~ *~ The End ~ * ~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (S) Dólvaen - Clever Head


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